ELECT  LIBRARY  No.  137 


fTs: 


STREET&SMITH  -»  PUBLISHERS  -^  NEW 


GIFT  OF 
M.   G.    Luck 


I  Have  Lived  and  Loved 


A  NOVEL 


.BY 


Mrs.  FORRESTER 


STREET   &    SMITH    CORPORATION 

PUBLISHERS 

79-89  Seventh  Avenue,  New  York 


(Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America) 

•          •     •      •        e  c.        •       ••«     •  •         •  e 

•  c        ••••••*  ••  •'•••• 


I  HAVE  LIVED  AND 


BY  MRS.   FORRESTER. 


^    • 

CHAPTER  I. 

A  BOWER  of  roses  in  the  midst  of  a  charming,  old- fashioned 
garden,  and  leaning  back,  half  reclined,  with  one  arm  raised, 
the  open  palm  supporting  her  head,  the  most  beautiful  woman 
God  ever  made. 

Thus  John  Brandon  desc^bed  Vanessa  as  he  saw  her  for  the 
first  time. 

li  When  she  saw  me,''  he  added,  "  she  started  up  with  a  lovely 
blush,  and  a  look  half  as  though  she  had  been  caught  in  some 
guilty  act.  half  as  if  terrified  by  the  apparition  of  a  monster 
about  to  devour  her.  I  was  the  monster/'  and  John  Brandon 
laughed. 

It  is  not,  however,  from  John  Brandon  that  you  are  to  hear 
Vanessa's  story,  but  from  one  who  knew  far  more  of  her  than 
he  was  ever  destined  to  know. 

Vanessa  rose,  blushed,  beautifully  to  his  eyes,  agonizingly  to 
her  own  consciousness,  and  stood  for  a  moment  speechless  and 
confounded.  He  smiled  and  addressed  her  with  the  easy  grace 
of  a  man  of  the  world;  she  responded  with  the  diffidence  and 
confusion  of  a  woman  who  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  meets  a 
man  with  any  pretension  to  rousing  her  interest. 

For  this  pearl  lies  perdu  in  the  heart  of  the  country;  the 
furthest  excursion  she  has  ever  made  from  the  place  of  he* 
birth  is  to  a  small  town  twenty  miles  distant.  And  that  o'nly 
once. 

Now  that  she  has  risen,  John  Brandon  sees  that  she  is  tall, 
"divinely  tall;"  as  tall  as  himself,  which  is  not  far  from  five 
feet  ten.  But  she  is  so  exquisitely  proportioned  that,  far  from 
looking  too  tall,  she  would  make  any  other  woman,  were  one 
present,  appear  too  short. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  startled  you,"  says  Brandon,  standing 'at  the 
gate  of  that  paradise  of  which  the  Peri  is  inside.  "  May  I  conie 
in  and  explain  ?" 

And,  without  waiting  for  the  permission  which  she  is  too  em- 
barrassed to  give,  he  enters. 

"  I  came  to  see  Mr.  Went  worth,  but  ike  is  out,  and  I  was  told 
that  if  I  would  '  step  down  the  garden.'  I  should  find  you.  £ 


M75902 


•  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

rode  over  from  L~- — :  my  name  is  Brandon.     You  may  have 

Ktar.l  your  father  speak   of  fie.     We  were  very  great  friends 

Vanessa  is  embarrassed.  She  knows  nothing  of  society  nor 
its  ways,  but  her  innate  good  breeding  suggests  to  her  that  it 
will  not  be  complimentary  to  her  guest  to  tell  him  that,  until 
this  moment,  his  name  has  never  fallen  on  her  ear. 

"  My  father  lives  so  much  in  his  books."  she  says,  half  apolo- 
getically. 

"  Ah!*'  and  there  is  a  slight  pause.  "  We  were  bosom  friends 
at  Oxford — they  used  to  call  us  David  and  Jonathan,  and, 
afterward,  we  traveled  together.  But  that  is  twenty  years  ago. 
Somehow  we  drifted  apart.  I  don't  think,  though,  that  he  will 
have  forgotten  me.  It  was  flnly  yesterday  that  I  heard  his 
name  mentioned,  and  I  felt  quite  sure  there  could  not  be  two 
Ivan  Wentworth's,  so,  on  the  strength  of  that,  I  rode  over  to- 
day." 

"Yes?" 

Vanessa  is  deeply  interested:  this  is  quite  an  adventure — a  dis- 
tinct sense  of  gratification  creeps  through  her  as  she  finds  her- 
self talking  to  a  man,  a  real  man,  not  a  dried-up  old  mummy 
or  an  inferior,  who.  to  Vanessa's  idea,  is  no  more  a  man  than 
the  lackey  was  to  the  yrande  dame  who  originated  the  oft- 
quoted  epigram.  And  she  can  read  the  admiration  which  his 
eyes  unsparingly  express  as  well  as  though  she  were  a  woman  of 
trie  world:  for  experience  in  a  case  of  this  sort  is  quite  unneces- 
sary even  to  the  most  innocent  and  ignorant  of  Eve's  daughters. 

*'  I  dare  say  papa  will  not  be  very  Ion  jr."  Vanessa  says;  and 
even  whilst  she  speaks  there  is  a  sound  of  the  crunching  of 
gravel,  and  in  another  moment  the  friends  of  yore  are  face  to 
face.  There  is  a  grasp  of  hands,  a  light  in  both  men's  eyes,  as 
if  the  parting  had  been  of  twenty  weeks  or  twenty  days  instead 
of  twenty  years.  Ah!  those  friendships  made  at  public  school 
and  college  are  cemented  by  something  stronger  than  later-day 
bonds!  Men  who  were  friends  as  boys  are  pretty  sure  to  be 
friends  to  their  dying  day— unless  a  woman  comes  between 
them,  and  even  then  they  reunite  when  the  cause  of  estrange- 
ment is  vanished  and  forgotten. 

Vanessa  steals  away — not  because  she  would  not  fain  stay, 
but  that  a  sense  of  diffidence  and  slyness  makes  her  feel  de  trop; 
lie  walks  off  toward  the  house,  whilst  John  Brandon's  eyes 
regretfully  follow  her  graceful,  rather  stately  movements.  She 
makes  her  way  at  once  to  the  old-fashioned,  low,  latticed- win- 
dowed room  where  she  is  certain  of  finding  Susan.  Susam  is 
nurse,  housekeeper,  cook,  groom  of  the  chambers,  friend,  con- 
jiddiite.  all  in  one — one  of  tliose  delightful  old  friends  and  serv- 
ants whose  irreparable  loss  at  an  advanced  age  is  mourned 
occasionally  now  in  the  columns  of  the  Times;  who  used  to  be 
in  almost  every  household,  and  who.  in  twenty  years'  time,  will 
be  no  more  than  legendary  ghosts;  traditions  ransacked  from 
the  limbo  of  forgotten  things  by  some  great-grand  mo  ther." 

"  Susan,"  says  her  beautiful  young  mispress,  as  sh.-  advances 


*    IfAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  $ 

vnth  quickened  steps  to  where  her  nurse,  spectacled  and  brsy, 
sits  repairing  the  household  linen — M  ST  -..sun.  wiiat  do  you  think?' 

Susan  looks  up  over  her  glasses  with  an  expression  of  affec- 
tionate interest. 

"  There  is  a  gentleman  in  the  garden  with  papa!" 

And  Vanessa's  large  dark  blue  eyes  dilate  as  she  recounts  this 
extraordinary  fact.  Jt  is  extraordinary  enough  to  make  Susan 
drop  her  work  into  her  lap,  cry,  "  Lor',  my  dear!"'  and  remain  for 
a  minute,  with  her  mouth  half  open,  regarding  her  nursling. 

"  They  were  friends  together  at  Oxford/'  pursues  Vanessa,  her 
excitement  rather  growing  than  decreasing;  "  they  used  to  be 
called  David  and  Jonathan,  and  they  traveled  together,  and  he 
heard  papa's  name  mentioned  somewhere  and  he  knew  it  must 
be  papa,  and  so  he  rode  over." 

"  Lor,  my  dear!"  reiterates  Susan.  "  Well  I  never!  What's 
the  gentleman's  name  V" 

Vanessa  makes  a  thoughtful  little  pucker  in  her  brow. 

41  He  told  me,"  she  says,  musingly.  "But  I  was  so  surprised 
I  didn't  quite  catch  it." 

*4  Did  he  come  in  along  of  your  pa?"  inquires  Susan,  with 
deepest  interest. 

"No.  That  reminds  me.  He  saul  some  one  told  him  to  step 
down  the  garden.  Who  could  it  have  been  ?  It  wasn't  you  V" 

"Me,  my  dear!"  and  Susan  bridles  a  bit.  "Well,  I  hope  I 
haven't  forgotten  my  manners  so  far,  though  we  don't  see  com- 
pany, as  to  send  a  visitor  off  by  himself  to  look  for  the  lady  of 
the  house.  It  can't  have  been  Hepzibah,  because  though  she's 
gawk  enough  to  have  done  it,  she'd  have  been  sure  to  run  to  me 
with  her  mouth  wide  open  if  she'd  seen  a  stranger.  It  must  have 
been  old  Peter,  who's  got  no  more  manners  than  a  pig." 

"Of  course  I  ought  to  have  apologized,"  says  Vanessa,  rather 
concerned.  "  It  was  very  rude  and  unceremonious;  but  he  didn't 
seem  to  think  anything  of  it,  and  I  was  so  taken  by  surprise." 

"  I  dare  say  you'll  see  him  again,  and  you  must  tell  him  then," 
returns  Susan,  consolingly.  "But,"  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden, 
thought,  "  if  he  was  at  college  with  your  pa,  he  can't  be  a  very 
young  gentleman." 

"No,"  says  Vanessa,  musingly,  "I  suppose  not.  And  yet, 
somehow,  he  did  not  seem  old— not  as  old  as  papa  by  ever  so 
much." 

Susan  looks  up  shrewdly. 

"  Is  he  a  married  gentleman,  my  dear?" 

Vanessa's  face  falls  a  little. 

"  I  don't  know.     I  shouldn't  think  so,"  more  cheerfully. 

"Here  conies  your  pa  up  the  walk,  and  in  a  hurry,"  cries 
kusan,  rising  and  putting  down  her  work.  "  Now,  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  isn't  thinking  of  asking  the  gentleman  to  stop  or 
something." 

The  next  moment  Mr.  Wentw.orth  hurries  in. 

"  I've  asked  Mr.  Brandon  to  stay  till  to-morrow, r'  he  says, 
looking  a  little  guiltily  from  one  to  the  other.  "  I  suppose  It  can 
be 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

Susan  is  one  of  those  delightful  people,  who  are  what  is  called 
"  good  at  a  pinch/' 

"  III  see  about  a  room  at  once,  sir,"  she  says  briskly. 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  Susan,'7  replies  her  master,  gratefully. 
"  But " — hesitatingiy  —  •'  there's — dinner  to  be  thought  of.  Lon- 
don people,  of  course,  always  dine,"  he  adds  ruefully,  bethinking 
him  of  their  own  customary  homely  tea.  % 

At  this  even  Susan's  cheerful  face  falls  a  little. 

'•  Have  you  got  anything  in  the  house?"  asks  Mr.  Went  worth, 
nervously,  with  an  imploring  glance, 

"  There  isn't  a  bit  of  butcher's  meat,"  answers  Susan,  looking 
rather  unhappy  at  being  unable  to  come  to  her  master's  rescue, 
—feeling,  indeed,  as  servants  used  to  feel,  that  the  honor  or  dis- 
grace of  the  house  was  theirs  as  much  and  more  than  the  head's. 
"But,"  brightening,  rt  there's  a  chicken  killed  early  yesterday 
morning,  and  a  beautiful  hand  of  pork,  and  I  can  make  a  nice 
pudding." 

The  vicar's  thoughts  traveled  mournfully  back  to  past  years 
in  which  he  had  been  entertained  at  Hospitable  boards.  Phan- 
tom visions  of  soup,  fish,  entrees,  rotsts,  cross  his  perturbed 
brain.  But  there  is  no  help  for  it — chicken,  hand  of  pork,  and 
pudding  must  be  his  guest's  f&re  to-night:  it  shall,  however,  be 
garnished  by  the  sauce  of  a  hearty  welcome. 

"Well,  you'll  do  your  best,"  he  sa3Ts,  trying  to  speak  cheer- 
fully. *'  It  is  five  o'clock  now.  i  suppose  we  ought  to  dine  at 
seven.  I  think  that  is  the  time  people  generally  dine.  Well, 
I  must  be  going  back  to  him." 

And  the  vicar  departs,  almost  sorry  that  ho  has  been  tempted 
to  offer  hospitality  to  his  old  friend,  since  his  capabilities  are  so 
far  behind  his  aspirations. 

John  Brandon  would  fyave  laughed  at  the  idea  that  a  roast 
chicken,  with  a  beautiful  young  woman  to  look  at  and  talk  to, 
was  not  good  enough  for  any  man,  even  though  he  was  a  bit  of 
an  epicure  and  accustomed  to  be  a  trifle  critical  about  his  dinner. 
One  can  have  a  good  dinner  any  day,  but  one  does  not  meet  a 
dear  old  friend — a  dear  old  friend  with  a  lovely  daughter — every 
day. 

Meantime  Susan  bustles  about,  wakes  up  sleepy  Hepzibah,  who 
is  dawdling  in  the  kitchen,  with  a  vengeance,  whilst  Vanessa, 
extremely  anxious  to  help,  but  fearful  of  being  in  the  way,  fol- 
lows her  about  at  a  respectful  distance.     Suddenly  she  has  an 
i  rat  ion. 

**  I'll  go  and  tell  Peter  to  pick  a  dish  of  peas,  and  some  lettuce 
for  a  salad,  shall  I?"  she  says. 

do,  that's  a  lady,"  rejoins  Susan:  "  and  just  you  tell  him, 
rny  dear,  not  to  send  in  all  the  old  bullets,  but  to  pick  some 
;ig  ones.'' 

Vanessa  sails  away  on  her  errand,  and  impresses  strongly  on 
old  Peter  that  he  is  to  bring  in  none  but  the  youngest  and 
freshest  peas. 

•Why,  that's  downright,  waste!"  he  grants,  ''and  what's  to 
become  of  the  others?    They  won't  be  no  younger  to-morrowf  • 
anyhow." 


1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  a 

"  We  have  company"  says  Vanessa,  solemnly,  and  even  Pet?r 
is  overawed  by  the  significance  of  that  expression.  Then  Va- 
nessa returns  to  Susan. 

"My  dear."  says  the  latter,  who  is  busy  making  a  pudding, 
"  it's  "just  come  to  me  that  Mary  Ann  could  help  us.  Now  I 
haven't  a  moment  and  I  can't  spare  Hepzibah'  though  it's  little 
use  she  is  to  anybody "  (Susan  can  never  keep  from  having  a 
thrust  at  her  subordinate);  "  but  now  if  you  would  just  step  up 
and  see  her  I  dare  say  she  could  let  us  have  something  to  help 
the  dinner  out  with.  For,  after  all,  what's  a  chicken  among 
three  ?" 

"  Oh.  I  won't  eat  any,"  says  Vanessa. 

"That  'ud  never  do.  Why,  you  would  look  like  a  country 
miss  a-m%kin'  your  dinner  off  biledpork,  or  else  he'd  see  through 
your  doing  it,  that  you  thought  there  wasn't  enough.  But  Mary 
Ann's  got  all  sorts  of  things  in  tins  and  pots  that  she  tells  me  the 
quality  thinks  a  deal  off — nasty  messes,  I  say.  Patty  something 
or  other  and  such  like.  Now  if  she  could  let  me  have  one  or  two 
and  tell  me  how  to  serve  'eni  up — 

"But, "-.puts  in  Vanessa,  dubiously,  "we  can't  take  the 
squire's  things." 

"  Why,  bless  me,  my  dear,  of  course  I  mean  to  return  'em,  and 
I'm  sure  your  pa  wouldn't  -stand  for  a  few  shillings  for  the  sake 
of  an  old  friend." 

"  I'll  go  at  once,"  cries  Vanessa,  rather  excited  at  the  idea. 
"  Where's  a  basket  ?" 

"No,  don't  you  take  a  basket,"  replies  Susan;   "it  wcr 
IOOK  well^if  the  servants  was  to  see  you  carry  one  up  and  bring 
it  back  with  you.     Mary  Ann  'ull  find  some  one_to  send  down 
with  the  things." 

It  is  a  warm  afternoon,  and  Vanessa  has  nearly  three  quarters 
of  a  mile  to  walk  to  the  Hall.  The  drive  from  the  lodge-gates  to 
the  house  is  half  a  mile  long.  By  the  time  she  reaches  her 
destination  her  cheeks  are  flushed  and  she  is  uncomfortably 
warm.  She  does  not  go  to  the  front  door,  but  round  to  the  win- 
dow of  the  housekeeper's  room.  Inside,  she  sees  the  portly 
figure  of  Mrs.  Marter,  or  Mary  Ann.  as  Susan  calls  her,  for  they 
are  sisters. 

"Why,  my  dear,"  she  cries,  at  sight  of  Vanessa  standing  at 
the  open  window,  "  is  that  you?" 

Even  Susan  herself  has  not  a  warmer  love  or  admiration  for 
the  child  both  have  known  and  petted  from  infancy  than  Mrs. 
Marter. 

"Yes,"  answers  Vanessa,  sitting  on  the  ledge  and  letting  her- 
self down  into  the  room. 

"Why,  how  warm  you  are!  Now  why  do  you  go  tearing 
about  on  a  day  fit  to  brile  the  life  out  of  you  r" 

"  Because  something's  happened,"  says  Vanessa,  mysteriously, 
"  Only  think,  Mary  Ann,  we've  got  company;  a  gentleman  from 
London  to  dine  and  stay  the  nig  lit." 

"  Why,  whatever  will  you  do  ?"  cries  Mrs.  Marter.  "  I  do  Slops 
Bf  ~?  Susan's  got  something  to  give  him  fit  to  eat/* 


b  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVET>. 

"  There's  a  chicken  and  a  hand  of  pork  and  a  puddly/' 
Vanessa. 

"Why,  don't  tell  me  that's  all?*'  ejaculates  Mary  Ann,  who 
Aas  the  strong  sense  of  the  proprieties  that  befits  a  housekeeper 
in  a  "  high  family." 

"  Yes,  that's  all  there  is,  but  Susan  thought  that  perhaps  you 
could  lend  us  something.  Of  course,'"  rather  loftily,  "  we  shall 
return  it." 

44  To  be  sure  I  can."  cries  Mary  Ann,  busy  with  her  thoughts. 
"Now  it's  just  lucky  that  Sir' Bertram's  coming  home  to-day 
and  I've  got  something  in  the  house.  Now,"  enumerating, 
"  there's  a  fine  bit  of  salmon — a  slice  off  it  won't  be  noticed,  and 
I  could  spare  half  of  one  of  my  ontrays  and ' 

"Oh,  no,"  interposes  Vanessa;  ''it  must  only  be  something 
that  we  can  return.'' 

After  a  good  deal  of  discussion^  in  which  Vanessa  stoutly  op- 
poses Mary  Ann's  generous  wishes,  it  is  settled  that  she  will  take 
a  slice  of  salmon,  a,  pate  defoie  gras,  a  dish  of  strawberries,  and 
nothing  more. 

"  Now-  then,  I'll  get  one  of  the  men  to  carry  the  basket  down 
to  the  vicarage,  says  Mrs.  Marter.  "  He'll  be  there  as  soon  as 
you." 

But  Vanessa  insists  on  carrying  the  treasures  home  herself. 
She  is  a  proud  young  lady  who  does  not  at  all  like  the  idea  of  bor- 
rowing provisions  from  the  Hall,  and  she  feels  that  were  any 
of  the  servants  to  know  of  this  little  episode,  she  would  be  low- 
ered forever  in  their  eyes.  So,  in  spite  of  all  Mary  Ann  -can  say, 
Vanessa  hangs  the  basket  on  her  arm,  and  proceeds,  half  tri- 
umphant, half  ashamed,  on  her  way  home.  She  feels  as  though 
4-very  man.  woman,  or  child  whom  sVe  may  meet  will  know 
that  she  is  carrying  off  the  squire's  property,  and  even  the  knowl- 
edge that  it  is  to  be  religiously  restored" to  the  uttermost  far- 
thing, except,  of  course,  the  strawberries,  does  not  quite  console 
her. 

What,  then,  is  her  consternation  when,  half  way  down  the 
drive,  she  perceives  Sir  Bertram's  carriage  rolling"  rapidly  to- 
ward her!  The  instinct  of  Mother  Eve  to  hide  herself  possesses 
her  panic-stricken  soul;  but  there  is  noplace  to  give  her  shelter. 
Fain  would  she  conceal  the  basket,  but  it  is  a  great,  big.  uncon- 
cealable  affair,  and  she  wears  only  her  close-fitting  cotton  frock. 
Her  face  crimsons;  she  looks  straight  in  front  of  her  as  the  car- 
riage dashes  past,  making  no  acknowledgment  of  the  salutes  of 
the  men  on  the  box,  nor  glancing  at  the  inside  of  the  brougham 
to  give  a  bow  of  welcome  to  the  returning  squire. 

It  is  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  has  ever  felt  the  emotion 
of  shame,  and  now  she  wishes  from  her  heart  that  they  had 
rather  set  bread  and  cheese  before  the  stranger  than  descended 
to  the  ignominy  of  borrowing  his  dinner. 

When  the  carriage  has  passed  she  breathes  again;  the  violent 
beating  of  her  heart  subsides.  She  is  still  hot  with  a  heat  that 
even  the  July  sun  is  not  responsible  for;  but  she  feels  that  the 
worst  is  over0 

Is  it?    To  whomt  then,  belongs  the  tall  command frig  £orin 


I  WAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  7 

just  issuing  from  the  lodge  at  the  gates — to  whom  if  not  to  th« 
squire,  Sir  Bertram  Mmself. 

CHAPTER  II. 

HE  is  within  fifty  yards  of  her — she  cannot  turn  aside  or  re- 
trace her  steps — no  criminal  detected  in  a  heinous  offense  could 
feel  more  abjectly  wretched  and  guilty  than  proud  Vanessa.  Sir 
Bertram,  as  he  approaches,  lifts  his  hat  with  stiff  courtesy  and 
stops  to  speak  to  her.  Until  this  moment  he  has  simply  thought 
of  her  as  the  vicar's  daughter;  a  country  girl:  the  occasional 
playmate  of  his  granddaughters,  but,  in  the  blushing,  embar- 
rassed girl  before  him,  he  for  the  first  time  recognizes  a  charm- 
ing and  beautiful  woman.  And  Sir  Bertram,  though  he  despises 
women,  has  a  great  eye  for  beauty,  and  is  always  willing  to  look 
upon  the  sex  as  toys,  more  or  less  expensive.  He  has  never  be- 
fore been  at  the  pains  to  show  Vanessa  any  courtesy  or  attention 
beyond  the  civil  patronage  of  the  squire  to  the  vicar's  daughter,  , 
and  how  thankfully  would  she  to-day  have  dispensed  with  his 
politeness. 

"That  basket  is  too  heavy  for  you,"  he  says;  "  let  me  take  it." 

At  any  other  time  Vanessa  would  have  been  struck  dumb  by 
such  condescension — now  it  only  adds  to  her  agony.  She  stands 
blushing  and  stammering  but  holding  fast  to  her  burden. 
Enviable  in  her  eyes  would  have,  seemed  the  Spartan  boy  who 
possessed  a  cloak  wherewith  to  conceal  his  shame  and  his  suffer- 
ings. But  Sir  Bertram,  in  his  irresistible,  autocratic  way,  lays 
his  hand  upon  the  basket  and  takes  it  from  her.  The  most 
absent  of  men  could  scarcely  fail  to  perceive  Vanessa's  con- 
fusion, and  Sir  Bertram  has  the  eye  of  a  lynx.  He  is  pretty 
sure  that  her  embarrassment  is  in  some  way  connected  with  the 
basket.  Is  she  carrying  off  some  of  his  peaches?  Doubtless — 
since  the  beginning  of  the  world  her  sex  have  been  fruit-stealers. 
One  of  the  lodge-keeper's  boys  is  within  hail.  Sir  Bertram  sum- 
mons him  by  a  gesture. 

"Carry  that  to  the  vicarage  c<i refit ////,"  he  says,  and  the  lad 
departs  holding  it  with  ostentatious  care,  as  though  it  were  a 
cup  brimful  of  liquid. 

Now  that  the  possibility  of  the  squire  seeing  its  contents  is 
removed,  Vanessa  breathes  more  freely,  but  there  is  something 
forced  and  unnatural  in  her  manner  which  does  not  escape  her 
companion. 

"  I  have  come  from  London  to-day,1'  he  says,  affablv,  turning 
to  walk  with  her.  "  I  saw  your  friends  Mabel  and  Edith  last 
night," 

"  Are  they  quite  well  ?  I  suppose  the}7  are  enjoying  the  season 
very  much,"  hazards  Vanessa. 

The  boy  is  out  of  sight  now,  thank  Heaven! 

"  As  much  as  your  sex  always  enjoy  excitement  and  dissipa- 
tion," replies  Sir  Bertram.  He  is  surprisedto  find  himself  talking 
to  her  as  though  she  were  a  woman  of  the  world.  "  I  have  no 
doubt  you,"  looking  critically  at  her,  "  would  think  yourself  in 
paradise  If  you  coulcHhave  a,  glimpse  of  town  life."  ., 


fc  I^HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

Vanessa  turns  her  beautiful  eyes  to  him  with  quite  a  solemn 
look. 

"I  think  I  should,"  she  says,  and  sighs.  Has  she  not  had 
dreams  and  cravings  after  pleasure  and  society  and  the  good 
things  of  this  world  ?  S 

"  »Some  day  perhaps  it  may  be  your  turn,"  remarks  the  squire, 
briskly. 

She  makes  no  answer  to  this  impossible  suggestion. 

At  every  step  he  takes  in  her  compahy  Sir  Bertram  finds  him- 
self more  impressed  by  her  grace  and  beauty. 

'•  I  hope, "..lie  says,  with  an  approach  to  geniality  of  which 
Vanessa  had  never*  conceived  him  capable — 4<  I  hope  .that  my 
being  at  the  Hall  will  not  frighten  you  away  from  it.  Pray 
come  up  to  the  gardens  or  the  house  as  you  are  accustomed  to 
do  in  my  absence." 

•*  Thank  you,"  murmurs  Vanessa,  her  confusion  returning  as 
she  wonders  whether,  if  he  knew  about  the  contents  of  the 
basket,  he  would  be  as  polite  and  condescending. 

"  I  shall  wish  you  good-bye  here,"  he  says,  pausing  as  they 
come  in  sight  of  the  Vicarage  gate,  and  he  stops  and  holds  out 
his  hand  to  her.  \ 

A  sudden  instinct  comes  over  Vanessa  that  she  must  tell  him 
the  reason  of  her  errand  to  the  Hall — it  comes  over  her  with  an 
overmasteriiTgT^ower,  fighting  against  shame  and  timidity — it  is 
the  revolt  of  an  upright  nature  against  deceit. 

Seeing  her  turn  from  white  to  red,  and  back  to  white  again, 
trembling,  tears  coming  to  her  eyes,  Sir  Bertram's  curiosity  is 
aroused. 

"  Sir  Bertram,"  she  utters,  and  every  word  is  wrung  from  her 
with  a  pang,  ' 4 1  must  tell  you.  I  hope  you  will  not  be  offended. 
I  hope  you  will  not  think  me  very  mean — my  father  does  not 

know  anything  about  it — and "  Here  her  embarrassment  is 

painful  to  witness,  and  Sir  Bertram,  hard  as  he  is,  is  moved  by 
the  sight  of  beauty  in  distress, 

"  Pray  do  not  agitate  yourself,"  he  says,  in  quite  a  kind  voice. 
"  Why,  what  can  you  have  to  tell  me  ?"  And  again  his  thoughts 
travel  to  his  peaches.  k'  I  am  quite  sure."  with  an  air  of  gal- 
lantry she  is  too  wretched  to  remark,  ''that  I  shall  not  find 
fault  with  anything  yon  may  have  done." 

Vanessa  has  begun  her  self -inflicted  ordeal— there  is  no  going 
back  now. 

"  An  old  friend' !<3f  papa's  came  unexpectedly  to  see  us  to-day,'* 
she  relates  in  gasps.  ' '  Papa  asked  him  to  stay  the  night,  and — 
and — we  had  scarcely  anything  for  his  dinner,  and  Susan  and  I 
thought  (papa  knows  nothing  about  it)  that  perhaps  Mary  Ann, 
Mrs.  Marter,  could  help  us,  and  I  went  to  ask  her  to  lend  us 
something.  It  is  to  be  returned,"  adds  poor  Vanessa,  blushing  9 
still  deeper  crimson. 

Sir  Bertram  looks  at  her  with  an  amused  smile. 

' 'But,  my  dear  lady,"  he  utters,  with  great  courtesy  arid 
kindness  too,  "to  whom  should  one  apply  when  one  is  in  a  little 
difficulty  but  to  a  neighbor  ?  I  am  too  charmed  that  Marter  was 
able  to  be  of  use  to  TJOU — at  least  I  hope  she  was." 


1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LQVtiD*  ^ 

4'  Y  ;n  are  very  kind,"  says  Vanessa,  fixing  nei  eyes  for  a  mo-, 
ment  en  his  with  a  good  feeling  and  confidence  that  he  has 
never  before  inspired  in  her;  "but  it  seemed  to  mo  afterward 
that  it,  was  rather  a  mean  thing  to  do.  Papa,  I  am  sure,  would 
not  have  approved  of  it—  only  that  everything*  is  to  be  returned, 
except,"  still  goadec  on  by  that  terrible  impulse  of  truthfulness, 
'"the  strawberries,  and  as  ours  are  nearly  over  — 

"  As  yours  are  nearly  over,''  continues  Sir  Bertram,  smiling, 
"  you  must  in  future  come  and  share  mine.*' 

Is  it  possible  that  this  is  the  awful  Sir  Bertram,  tin  object  of 
ner  fear  from  childhood  up  ? 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  she  stammers  again. 

When  a  man  whois  not  accustomed  to  saying  or  doing  kind 
and  pleasant  things  finds  himself  launched  on  a  new  and  strange 
course,  he  is  generally  so  pleased  with  himself  /t  hat  he  wishes  to 
prolong  the  sensation. 

"  1  shall  look  upon  it  as  a  proof  of  friendship  if  you  will  treat 
me  in  a  neighborly  manner,  and  come  to  me  if  I  can  serve  you 
in  any  way." 

Thus  Sir  Bertram,  and  then  he  takes  her  hand,  dofTs  his  hat, 
and  leaves  her. 

Vanessa  is  not  accustomed  to  adventures  or  sensations,  and 
the  last  hour  has  given  her  more  than  she  has  had  in  her  col- 
lected life  before.  She  flies  home  at  full  speed,  and  going  straight 
to  the  kitchen,  where  Susan  is  still  busy  (Hepzibah  has  disap- 
peared), she  flings  herself  into  a  chair,  puts  her  arms  on  the 
table,  and,  to  the  dismay  and  consternation  of  her  nurse,  who 
has  been  rejoicing  over  the  contents  of  the  basket,  bursts  into  a 
passion  of  sobs  and  tears. 

his  house, 


uiisupported 

by  evidence,  that  women  are  deceitful  and  untruthful;  and  he 
is  exceedingly  surprised  to  find  one  of  the  sex  so  actuated  by  in- 
stinctive honesty  as  voluntarily  to  betray  herself. 

"It  is  strange,  too,"  he  muses,  "that  I  never  remarked  her 
beauty  before.  I  do  not  think  there  is  a  handsomer  woman  in 
London." 

And  then  an  i$ea  crosses  his  brain  of  so  astounding  a  nature 
that  he  stands  stock  still,  whilst  the  blood  runs  a  shade  faster 
through  his  veins,  and  his  even  pulse  beats  a  thought  quicker. 
Certainly  if  Vanessa  had  not  made  her  shameful  revelation  that 
idea  would  never  have  taken  shape  in  Sir  Bertram's  brain.  A 
beautiful  woman  —  that  was  common  enough—  but  a  beautiful 
•woman  with  a  strong  sense  of  honor!  Why  should  not  such  an 
one  become  Lady  Orford,  and  make  him  the  envied  of  all  men, 
and  give  him  a  direct  heir  to  his  fine  property,  thus  cutting  out 
the  heir-presumptive,  whom  he  hates  as  men  can  only  hate  the 
man  who  is  to  inherit  all  their  good  things  ?  The  thought  has 
so  intoxicating  an  effect  upon  him  that  he  addresses  the  head 
gardener,  who  at  this  moment  approaches  him,  with  a  geniality 
which  that  functionary  has  never  before  beheld  in  him,  and 
which  surru*iKP_Q  hjm  not  a 


10  /     HAVE    LIVED     AND    LOVEL. 

""Well,  Macfariane,  how  are  the  gardens  looking?  A  good 
show  of  flowers  this  year,  eh  ?  By  tlie  way.  I  want  a  man  sent 
down  to  the  Vicarage  at  once  with  some  of  your  best  grapes  and 
peachos— your  best."  with  emphasis,  ''and" my  compliments  to 
the  vicar.'' 

This  is  the  first  time  in  Mr.  Macfarlane's  life  that  he  has  ever 
received  such  an  order.  Sir  Bertram  is  not  given  to  making 
presents  to  the  vicar,  as  far  as  his  experience  goes. 

••  Yes,  Sir  Bertram/'  he  replies.  ';  Would  you  care  to  look 
round  the  houses  this  evening?" 

"  Not  to-night — not  to-night,"  answers  Sir  Bertram,  and  he 
walks  away  into  the  house  and  shuts  himself  in  his  study  to  pur- 
sue his  strange  and  fascinating  thoughts. 

Sir  Bertram  is  by  no  means  indifferent  to  women,  nor  does  he 
shun  their  society:  He  despises  them,  but  he  is  none  the  less  in 
the  ho  bit  of  making  playthings  of  them.  The  Sir  Bertram  who 
comes  occasionally  to  the  Hall,  goes  rigidly  to  church  twice 
every  Sunday  when  there,  and  never  has  a  petticoat  inside  his 
doors  except  those  of  his  daughter  and  granddaughters,  is  a  very 
different  man  from  the  Sir  Bertram  of  London,  Paris,  and  Vienna, 
although  no  one  can  say  of  him  that  he  parades  his  vices  (eccen- 
tricities, as  some  people  euphemistically  call  them)  before  the 
eyes  of  the  world.  There  lu-  is  a  man  of  fashion,  with  somewhat 
the  manners  of  the  old  school:  a  clever,  sarcastic,  cynical  man, 
of  whom  women  are  horribly  afraid,  though  eager  to  profit  by 
his  proverbial  liberality  to  the  sex.  It  is  a  favorite  axiom  of  his 
that  a  man  must  either  be  loved  for  what  lie  is  or  what  he  has, 
and  he  thinks  that  the  man  who  has  enjoys  the  superior  advan- 
tage. Once  in  his  life,  and  only  once,  has  he  been  loved  truly 
and  sincerely,  and  that  was  by  his  gentle  wife.  But  he  had 
wearied  of  her;  he  despised  her.  and  could  never  forgive  her  for 
not  having  borne  him  an  heir.  Marriage  had  been  so  irksome 
to  him  that  he  refused  to  enter  upon  that  estate  again — women, 
so  long  as  they  were  not  sure  of  a  man.  and  had  to  win  his  lib- 
erality by  amusing  and  currying  favor  with  him,  were  pretty 
certain  to  be  well-behaved  and  not  exacting.  As  for  their  love, 
he  did  not  valu*  it  an  atom:  it  rather  lent  piquancy  to  the  situa- 
tion that  all  the  time  they  flattered  themselves  they  were  cajol- 
ing and  deceiving  him  he  saw  through  and  laughed  at  them. 
Sir  Bertram,  you  see,  is  not  one  of  those  nice  old  gentlemen  who 
make  age  venerable  and  beloved.  The  term,  however,  "old 
gentleman"  scarcely  applies  to  him.  He  is  sixty-one,  hale, 
wiry,  vigorous,  and  he  does  not  look  his  age  by  three  or  four  years. 

His  musings,  which  he  pursues  over  his  wine  after  dinner,  be- 
comes more  and  more  agreeable  to  him — he.  who  so  rarely  re- 
solves suddenly  or  acts  on  the  spur  of  fancy,  has  almost  settled, 
that  he  will  hold  out  tlie  scepter  to  this  humble  Esther.  He 
draws  a  picture  to  himself  of  the  beautiful,  blushing  girl  sitting 
opposite  to  him  as  Lady  Orford.  and  the  picture  pleases  him  ex- 
ceedingly. To-morrow  morning  he  will  dispatch  a  note  asking 
the  vicar  and  his  daughter  to  dine.  It  does  not  occur  to  him  for 
a  moment  that  Esther  may  refuse  to  take  advantage  of  the  out- 
stretched scepter,  nor  that  indeed  there  can  be  any  factor  in  the 


~f    SAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVE1\  11 

affair  but  Sir  Bertram  OrforcTs  will.  Nor.  to  his  idea,  is  there 
anything  shocking  in  a  marriage  between  May  and  December, 
any  more  than  there  is  a  scruple  in  the  mind  of  an  old  Turk  who 
acquires  a  new  slave.  A  title,  diamonds,  fine  clothes,  and 
Sumptuous  living  are  to  him  an  ample  exchange  lor  youth  and 
beauty.  Neither  has  he  any  fear  of  rivals  after  marriage.  In 
his  opinion  no  man  is  ever  deceived  or  outwitted  unless  he  will- 
fully turns  his  back  and  shuts  his  eyes — a  woman  must  have  op- 
portunity or  what  can  she  do  V  If  a  husband  permits  his  wife  to 
/eceive  young  men  in  her  drawing-room  when  he  is  not  present; 
to  dance;  to  have  an  intimate  friend  of  her  own  sex  whose  house 
is  always  open  to  her;  he  is  a  fool  who  courts  dishonor  and  de- 
serves contempt. 

Lady  Orford  would  ha\e  none  of  these  opportunities.  A  sensi- 
ble man  does  not  leave  his  wife  to  her  own  devices  any  more 
than  he  leaves  diamonds  or  his  check-book  to  the  mercy  of 
strangers  and  possible  thieves.  *  ' 

Since,  for  the  last  sixteen  years,  women,  even  young  and 
handsome  ones,  havaangled  for  Sir  Bertram,  it  is  perhaps  not 
surprising  that  he  expects  to  find  a  young  country  girl,  with  no 
prospects,  ready  to  mount  to  a  seventh  heaven  of  ecstasy  at  be- 
ing invited  to  share  his  throne. 

I  left  in  y  beautiful  Vanessa  showering  tears  thick  and  fast  be- 
tween her  ringers  on  the  kitchen-table,  little  thinking  how  her 
shame  has  turned  to  her  glory  in  the- squire's  eyes,  and  only  con- 
scious of  a  sense  of  agonizing,  overwhelming  disgrace.  Being 
possessed  of  sufficient  temper  to  vindicate  her  earthliness,  she 
makes  unhappy  Susan  the  victim  of  her  wrath  and  misery. 

"  Why  did  you  persuade  me  to  do  anything  so  mean  ?"  she 
sobs.  "  It  is  all  your  fault.  I  never  felt  so  miserable  in  my  life 
—I  can  never  look  him  in  the  face  again." 

At  this  point  her  sol -s  redouble  and  her  whole  frame  is  con- 
vulsed. 

"  Why,  deary  me!"  cries  Susan,  aghast,  *k  whatever  has  hap- 
pened? Why,  Miss  Nessa,  my  dear,  don't  take  on  like  that!" 

And  she  looks  despairingly  from  Vanessa  to  her  culinary 
operations,  which  will  not  admit  of  being  left,  whilst  she  soothes 
her  nursling. 

"  Of  course,"  pants  Vanessa.  "  it  was  mean  and  horrid  to  go 
and  ask  for  the  squire's  things — it  was  like  stealing.  And  then 
to  meet  him  and  be  found  out  and  have  to  confess.'' 

From  her  redoubled  grief  at  this  point  it  is  evident  that  the 
most  poignant  reflection  is  the  last-mentioned  one. 

Poor  Susan  turns  pale  even  through  the  flush  with  which  the 
kitchen  fire  has  illumined  her  cheeks. 

44  Why.  lor',  my  dear,  what  do  you  mean?"  and  she  positively 
trembles,  for  every  one  stands  in  awe  of  the  squire. 

44 1  was  carrying  the  basket  and  I  met  him,  and  he  took  it 
from  me,"  gasps  Vanessa. 

Susan  is  fain  to  catch  hold  of  the  table  for  support.  It  is  not 
€nly  her  concern  for  her  young  lady's  distress,  but  an  awful 
thought  seizes  her  that  this  masterpiece  of  sagacity  on  her 'part 
Wi  which  sb'j  had  been  pluming  herself  may  have  a*st  her  sister 


12  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND 

her  situation     Sir  Bertram  is  a  very  hard  man,  as 
knows. 

•'  Why,"  she  falters,  "  he  never  went  for  to  open  it,  did  he?" 

"  No,"  answers  Vanessa;  "  but  it  was  all  the  same — I  had  to 
tell  him/' 

4 'Whatever  will  become  of  Mary  Ann!"  ejaculated  Susan, 
despairingly.  Then  she  too  feels  the  want  of  a  victim,  and  adds, 
irascibly.  "  I  don't  know  what  possessed  your  pa,  I'm  sure,  to 
ask  the  gentleman  to  stop  without  finding  out  first  whether  there 
was  anything  to  give  him  to  eat/'  * 

Vanessa  has  not  until  this  moment  thought  of  Mary  Ann's 
share  in  the  transaction.  Susan's  words  so  terrify  her  that  she 
leaves  off  sobbing  and  looks  up  aghast  with  her  lovely,  half- 
drowned  eyes. 

"  Did  the  squire  seem  very  angry  ?"  asks  Susan,  faintly, 

."  answers  Vanessa;  "  he  was  quite  kind — I  never  thought 
he  could  be  so  kind.  He  said  what  was  the  use  of  neighbors  if 
they  couldn't  help  each  other  in  a  difficulty." 

"Lor'  a  mussy  me!"  utters.Susan,  with  a. petrified  air.  "  Why, 
my  dear,  are  you  sure  you  understood  him*  right  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  am,v  responds  Vanessa,  pettishly.  "  But  that 
does  not  make  it  any  the  less  mean  or  horrid  to  have  done  it." 

Susan,  however,  takes  a  different  view  of  the  situation,  and 
goes  about  preparing  the  dinner  with  renewed  ardor. 

"  Oonie,  deary,"  she  says,  presently,  seeing  that  Vanessa  re- 
mains in  her  despondent  attitude — "  go  and  bathe  your  eyes  and* 
put  on  your  musling  frock,  so  as  to  be  ready  for  dinner." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  dine,"  replies  the  young  lady,  with  great 
decision.  '*  Do  you  think  I  would  touch  any  of  his  nasty  horrid 
things  after  the  misery  I've  suffered  about  them  ?"'' 

'-  Why,  my  dear,  'twill  look  so  odd  if  you  don't.  Come,  there'a 
a  lady,  go  and  get  yourself  ready." 

Vanessa  shakes  her  head. 

'•'  No,"  she  persists.  "  Besides,  they  won't  want  me.  They 
will  have  plenty  to  talk  about,  and  I  might  be  in  the  way." 

"  Well,"  observes  Susan,  "  I  should  have  thought,  never  meet- 
ing a  gentleman  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other,  you'd  have 
been  pleased  to  see  one  and  hear  him  talk." 

''What's  the  use  of  gentlemen  tome?"  utters  Variessa,  with 
unaccustomed  pettishness.  and  she  pushes  back  her  chair,  and, 
rising,  marches  out  of  the  room. 

It  is  with  considerable  chagrin  that  Mr.  Brandon,  on  being 
ushered  by  his  host  into  the  dining-room,  finds  only  two  covers 
laid.  All  the  time  that  he  has  been  talking  to  the  vicar  his  eyea 
have  furtively  been  seeking  the  flutter  of  a  skirt  in  the  distance, 
and,  though  the  conversation  has  been  interesting  enough,  he 
has  been  somewhat  anxious  for  the  dinner-hour,  when  he  should 
see  and  speak  to  that  shy,  beautiful  creature  again. 

"I  hope  I  have  not  driven  Miss  Went  worth  away,"  he  says  tc 
the  vicar,  with  an  intonation  of  disappointment  that  shrewd 
Susan's  ears  do  not  fail  to  catch.  For  Susan,  mistrustful  of  Hep- 
zibah,  has  electe  1  to  wait  at  dinner,  thinking  only  of  her  mas 
fcer's  honor  a^d  glory,  and  nothing  of  her  own  dignity* 


/    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  13 

*'  Where  is  my  daughter?"  asks  Mr.  Wentworth,  looking  in- 
quiringly at  Susan, 

"  Miss  Wentworth  is  rather  feeling  the  heat,  sir,"  replies  that 
excellent  woman,  mendaciously,  "  She  asks  to  be  excused  from, 
dining  to-night," 

If  Susan  has  taken  immense  pains  over  this  banquet,  she  is 
amply  repaid  by  the  justice  that  host  and  guest  do  to  it;  by  the 
look  of  pleased  surprise  in  the  vicar's  eyes  as  the  various  delica- 
cies are  put  before  them,  and  the  compliments  which  Mr.  Bran 
don  pays  to  the  excellence  of  country  fare.  Susan,  by  the  end 
of  dinner,  has  fallen  in  love  with  the  stranger— he  is  quite  the 
^gentleman,  fine,  handsome,  upstanding,  pleasant,  friendly — she 
finds  a  whole  string  of  epithets  for  him,  and  is  enthusiastic  in 
praise  of  him  to  Vanessa,  whose  appetite,  having  got  the  bet- 
ter of  her  temper,  had  brought  her  down  to  the  kitchen,  where, 
in  spite  of  Susan's  remonstrances,  she  insists  in  dining  off  such 
of  the  comestibles  as  are  strictly  Vicarage  property.  She  is 
thus  engaged  when  a  tap  comes  at  the  door  and  one  of  the  gar- 
deners from  the  Hall  appears  with  the  squire's  offerings  and  his 
polite  message. 

As  Susan  says,  with  more  emphasis  th^in  originality,  you  might 
have  knocked  her  down  with  a  feather.  She  goes  hastily  out, 
shutting  the  door  behind  her,  to  exclude  from  profane  gaze  the 
voluntary  Cinderella^  and  to  draw  a  glass  of  beer  for  the  squire's 
messenger. 

When  she  returns  and  takes  the  contents  from  the  basket,  she 
is  more  wonder-stricken  than  ever.  A  couple  of  bunches  of 
grapes  which  she  declares  remind  her  of  the  picture  in  Scripture' 
history  of  the  Children  of  Israel  coming  out  of  Canaan  with  their 
samples  of  its  fertility  (aforesaid  picture  representing  two  stal- 
wart men  bearing  on  a  pole  between  them  a  bunch  of  grapes, 
each  of  which  is  as  big  as  a  turkey's  egg*),  and  a  dozen  of  the 
largest,  loveliest  peaches,  whichjnake  Vanessa's  eyes  glisten. 

"  Well!!!"  utters  Susan,  hearing  a  long  sigh,  the  expression  of 
half  a  dozen  different  emotions.  -Then  after  a  prolonged  gaze  at 
her  nursling,  she  remarks,  "  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  the  squire 
hasn't  gone  and  fallen  in  love  with  you!" 

At  which  Vanessa  bursts  into  a  peal  of  laughter  that  nt^kes 
its  way  into  the  dining-roorn  and  distracts  and  tantalizes  John 
Brandon  horribly. 

CHAPTER  III. 

A  GLORIOUS  sunset  floods  the  lattice'tl  panes  of  the  bay- win- 
dowed dining-room — the  vicar  and  his  guest  are  still  sitting  over 
their  wine  and  the  magnificent  dessert;  the  former  has  not  been 
so  pleased  or  excited  this  many  a  year,  and  the  latter,  having 
spent  all  the  season  in  London,  finds  the  country  a  paradise,  in- 
complete, however,  at  this  moment  without  its  Eve,  whom  he  sus- 
pects to  be  lurking  in  the  garden.  Yes,  in  the  distance,  behind 
yonder  tree,  he  is  certain  that  is  the  flutter  of  a  white  skirt.  He 
is  dying  to  propose,  an  adjournment  to  the  garden,  but  his  host 
seems  so  happy  sipping  his  port  and  leisurely  enjoying  his  grapes. 


14  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

that  John  Brandon,  who  is  the  best-natured  man  in  the  world 
has  not  the  heart  to  disturb  him.  Fortune,  however,  which  i* 
always  doing  one  person  a  good  turn  at  the  expense  of  another, 
favors  him.  The  capricious  goddess  lakt-s  the  form  of  the  ex° 
cellenjt  and  homely  Susan. 

"  1  am  sorry  to  disturb  you,  sir,''  she  says,  in  a  low  voice  to  hei 
master,  "  but  they  don't  flunk  Widow  Junes  can  last  the  night, 
and  she  keeps  on  asking  for  you." 

In  an  instant  the  vicar  lias  risen  from  his  chair. 

4i  I  will  go  at  once.'1  he  answers.  Then,  turning  to  Brandon, 
he  adds,  *M  know  that  in  so  solemn  a  case  you " 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  assents  the  other  heartily.  % 

44  Ask  my  daughter  to  come  down  at  once,"  utters  the  vicar, 
hurriedly;  but  Brandon,  rising,  says: 

4k  1  see  Miss  Wentworth  in  the  garden,  and  will  join  her 
there." 

As  he  walks  across  the  lawn  through  the  balmy,  flower-scented 
air,  a  sense  of  pleasure  steals  through  his  veins.  The  heavens 
are  still  aglow  with  the  glory  of  the  vanished  sun — a  great,  per- 
fect peace  is  on  everything;  for  a  moment  it  crosses  his  mind  to 
wonder  how  men  can  prefer  the  din  and  tumult,  the  loaded  air, 
the  feverish  unrest  of  life  in  cities  to  the  delicious  calm,  the  re- 
poseful happiness  of  the  country.  He  has  not  time  to  remember 
that  it  is  not  always  summer  even  here,  and  that  one  is  not 
always  hastening  feo'join  a  lovely  young  woman  who  inspires  an 
ardent  interest  in  one's  breast. 

He  comes  upon  Vanessa  standing  midway  down  the  path  look- 
ing at  the  gorgeous  sunset.  She  has  not  heard  his  footsteps  on 
the  grass,  and  starts  as  he  comes  up  to  her.  He  first  answers  the 
questioning  look  in  her  eyes,  which  says,  "  "Where  i«  my  fathei  ?" 
and  then  adds  on  his  own  account: 

44  Why  did  you  deprive  us  of  the  pleasure  of  your  society  at 
dinner?'' 

He  speaks  with  the  peculiar  modulation  of  voice  that  men  use 
toward  a  woman  whom  they  either  love  already  or  feel  thein- 
Belves  capable  of  loving;  and  Vanessa,  who  all  these  years  has 
been  dreaming  of  lovers  and  heroes  and  knights,  recognizes  the 
intonation  at  once  with  a  little  thrill  of  pleasure.  Perhaps  John 
Brandon  is  not  much  like  a  hero,  but  he  is  a  decidedly  well- 
looking  gentleman,  and— he  is  the  first  man  who  has  ever  stood 
to  Vanessa  in  the  position  of  a  possible  lover.  His  words,  and, 
more  than  his  words,  the  tone  of  them,  bring  a  smile  to  her  lips 
and  a  light  to  those  lovely  eyes  which  at  this  moment  are  aflame 
from  the  red  glow  in  the  heavens. 

4'  I  thought,"  she  says,  developing  in  a  moment  the  instinct  of 
coquetry  inborn  in  ner  sex — "  I  thought  I  might  be  in  the  way. 
You  and  papa  would  have  so  much  to  talk  about."  Then,  with 
a  look  direct  into  his  eyes,  which  are  level  with  hers,  and  with 
a  half-restrained  eagerness  in  her  voice  which  is  immensely  flat- 
tering to  him,  she  utters,  "It  is  not  really  true  that  papa  and 
you  were  at  college  together?  You  cannot  be  as  old  as  he  is'r" 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  it  occurs  to  John  Brandon  to  rs 


*     HAVE    LIVED    AND     LOVED,  15 

gret  his  age,  and  to  wish  that  he  could  take  ten,  nay,  fifteen 
years  off  it. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  answers,  smiling,  "  that  there  is  but  a  few 
months'  difference,  a  year  at  most,  between  your  father  and 
myself."  Then  returning  to  his  caressing  inflection  of  voice 
"  Will  you,  after  that  confession,  banish  me  to  the  limbo  of 
fogydorn,  and  cease  to  feel  the  slightest  interest  in  me?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  answers  Vanessa,  with  one  of  her  beautiful  smiles, 
thinking  to  herself  meanwhile  that,  though  he  is  really  so  un- 
fortunately old  in  years,  still  in  heart,  even  in  looks,  he  is  quite 
young  enough  for — for  anything. 

"Forty-three,"  resumes  Brandon,  in  a  melancholy  tone. 
"And  the  worst  of  it,"  with  a  smile  hovering  about  his  lips — 
"the  worst  of  it  is  that  I  do  not  feel  old;  indeed,  until  this 
moment  I  don't  believe  I  ever  realized  the  dreadful  fact  of  my 
age." 

"Oh,"  says  Vanessa,  looking  quite  pained  and  embarrassed, 
for  she  is  exceedingly  sensitive  and  sympathetic,  and  would  con- 
sider it  a  crime^ratner  than  a  blunder  to  wound  any  one's  feel- 
ings, "  1  am  so  very  sorry.  I  did  not  mean — I 

"You  flattered  me,"  returns  Brandon,  gallantly,  "by  what 
you  said.  What  greater  compliment  could  you  pay  to  me  than  by 
refusing  to  believe  my  age  ?  And  I  am  quite  young  enough,'1 
dropping  his  voice,  "not  to  be  proof  against  beauty  and 
charm." 

He  is  not  altogether  pleased  with  himself  when  he  has  said 
this.  He  feels  a  burning  desire  to  make  love  to  the  beautiful 
creature  at  his  side,  and  yet  he  is  distinctly  conscious  that  he 
ought  not  to  treat  her  as  he  would  one  of  the  many  young  girls 
he  meets  in  society  who  are  open  to  a  flirtation  at  a  moment's 
notice.  Therefore  not  pausing  to  let  his  last  words  make  their 
point,  he  hurries  on,  changing  his  voice  to  a  matter-of-fact 
tone. 

"And  so,  your  father  tells  me,  you  have  lived  all  your  life 
here  in  this  quiet  country  spot." 

"  Yes,"  answer  Vanessa,  sensibly  disappointed  at  his  change 
of  tone;  "  I  have  never  been  away  from  it." 

"  Now,  do  you  know."  pursues  Brandon,  "it  is  almost  Impos- 
sible for  me  to  realize  the  position.  Some  one  who  has  lived  in. 
Arcadia  all  her  life;  has  never  seen  the  city,  nor  been  to  a  play, 
nor  witnessed  a  spectacle  of  any  kind  whatever,  nor  even  seen 
a  thousand  persons  collected  together." 

"  Ah!"  interposes  Vanessa,  eagerly,  "but  I  know  it  all  just  as 
well  as  if  I  had  seen  it.  I  have  read  about  it  in  books,  and  then. 
Edith  and  Mabel  described  everything  to  me." 

"  Edith  and  Mabel  ?"  inquiringly. 

"  Sir  Bertram's  granddaughters." 

"Now,"  smiles  Brandon,  "  I  shall  have  tt*  ask  who  Sir  Ber- 
tram is?'' 

"He  is  the  squire — Sir  Bertram  Orford— he  lives  at  the 
Hall,"  and  Vanessa  indicates  the  direction  of  Sir  Bertram's  seat 
by  a  gesture  of  her -head. 

"Oh!    is   he    yoar  squire?    I   have  met   him — I   know   him 


16  ^r    HAVE    LIVED    AND 

slightly."  Then,  feeling  a  shade  of  disappointment  as  he  thinks 
of  shooting-parties  and  a  troop  of  probable  young  gallants 
come  down  from  the  Hall  to  adore  and  make  love  to  the  vicar's 
daughter.  "  After  all,  then,  if  you  do  not  go  to  town,  town  is 
brought  to  you,  and  you  have,  I  suppose,  no  end  of  gayeties  and 
festivities  in  the  shooting  season." 

Vanessa  answers  him  by  a  little  laugh  that  shows  her  pearls 
of  teeth  to  perfection. 

"  Gayeties  and  festivities!"  she  echoes,  and  laughs  again. 

"  Put  surely  Sir  Bertram  has  shooting-parties  ? 

"Never,"  answers  Vanessa.  "He  does  not  shoot  himself,  be- 
cause once,  a  great  many  years  ago,  he  shot  a  friend's  eye  out, 
and  he  never  touched  a  gun  afterward.  Not  a  creature  ever 
comes  within  his  gate  except  his  daughter,  Mrs.  Vaughan,  and 
her  daughters,  Edith  and  Mabel?" 

"  Really!"  utters  Brandon,  somewhat  perplexed,  as  he  remem- 
bers Sir  Bertram's  reputation  as  a  host  and  entertainer  at  his  villa 
on  the  Thames. 

"  If  you  were  to  see  him,"  pursues  Vanessa,  "  you  would  quite 
understand  it.  He  cannot  bear  the  sight  of  women— or  girls. 
We  always  have  to  fly  if  we  see  him  coming." 

"  Really!"  utters  Brandon  again,  in  a  tone  still  more  indicative 
of  surprise.  Report  tells  a  very  different  tale  of  Sir  Bertram 
from  Vanessa's. 

"  I  am  forgetting,  though,"  she  continues,  "  you  said  you  knew 
him." 

"Only  slightly,"  returns  Brandon.  "  I  have  met  him  once  or 
twice  at  the  houses  of  mutual  friends  in  town." 

"  He  is  a  horrid,  disagreeable,  stiff,  pompous  old  man,"  says 
Vanessa,  candidly.  "We  hate  him." 

"  Does  we  include  his  granddaughters?" 

"Oh,  they  hate  him  much  more  than  I  do.     " Then,"  naively, ' 
"  th^y  see  so  much  more  of  him." 

The  after-glow  has  passed  into  twilight,  and  now  the  moon  is 
rising  and  making  lovely  lights  and  shadows  in  the  Vicarage 
garden. 

"Let  us  sit  here,"  says  Brandon,  pointing  to.  a  rustic  bench, 
and  Vanessa  complies.  This  is  certainly  the  pleasantest  even- 
ing she  has  ever  spent — the  novelty  of  the  situation  increases 
the  delight  of  it;  after  all  her  dreams,  she  is  really  sitting  here 
with  a  man  beside  her — a  man  who  tells  her  plainly  with  bis 
eyes,  in  a  language  which  she  understands  by  intuition,  that  he 
derives  the  keenest  pleasure  from  her  presence,  and  that  he  finds 
her  fan*. 

"  So,  then,"  he  says,  regarding  her  with  an  expression  of 
deepest  interest,  "you  are  only  half  Arcadian.  You  know  all 
about  the  world  and  its  doings,  though  only  by  hearsay." 

"  Yes,"  she  answers,  with  a  touch  of  conscious  pride,  "  Edith 
and  Mabel  tell  me.  every  thing." 

*Brandon  smiles,  wondering  to  himself  how  much  that  every* 
g  comprises. 
"?:;  '.  :?ow,"  he  says,  "  would  you  not  like  to  see  all  these  g?.T 


"  »    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  11 

doings  with  your  own  eyes  ?    Would  you  not  like  to  take  part  in 
them  yourself  ?"' 

' '*•'  Ah!"  utters  Vanessa,  with  a  long-drown  sigh.     She  does  not 
even  know  herself  how  much  that  sigh  expresses. 

"  Suppose,"  says  Brandon,  his  eyes  kindling  a  little  as  certain 
rapturous  thoughts  strike  him. — "  suppose  I  were  to  persuade 
your  father  to  bring  you  up  to  stay  with  me  in  town  ?" 

"Oh!"' and  Vanessa  looks  full  in  his  'eyes  with  some  such  an 
expression  as  a  slave  might  wear  whose  master  offered  her 
freedom. 

"  She  is  a  woman  all  over,*  thinks  Brandon.  He  makes  the 
reflection  in  no  spirit  of  detraction,  for  he  is  of  those  who  think 
the  so-called  weaknesses  of  women  their  greatest  charm.  Most 
brave,  honest,  manly  men  do.  A  woman  who  did  not  want  to 
be  loved  and  admired,  who  did  not  long  eagerly  for  pleasure, 
would  have  been  only  half  a  woman  in  his  eyes. 

"  Would  you  like  it?"  he  asks,  and  again  his  voice  falls  to  that 
tender  intonation. 

Would  she  like  it?  Her  face  tells  him  that,  but  her  voice  is 
choked  by  the  beating  of  her  heart.  Then  suddenly  the  light 
dies  away  from  her  eyes,  and  she  utters  mournfully : 

"  He  would  not  be  persuaded— I  know-he-  would  not." 

"We  shall  see,"  says  Brandon,  confidently  enough.  "Here 
he  comes.  Ifwill  not  broach  it  to-night,  because,  after  his  sad 
errand,  perhaps " 

And  here  the  vicar  joins  them. 

Susan,  as  she  brushes  her  nurseling's  locks  that  night,  is  all 
eagerness  to  hear  about  "  the  gentleman."  With  the  inherent 
passion  of  her  sex  for  match-making,  she  already  sees  in  him  a 
suitor,  a  possible  husband  for  her  young  lady. 

"  Did  you  find  out  if  he  was  married,  my  deary?"  is  almost 
her  first  question. 

"  Why,  of  course  he  is  not,"  returns  Vanessa,  superbly,  who, 
from  her  inner  sense  of  the  fitness  -of  things  rather  than  from 
her  own  knowledge  of  the  world  (as  derived  from  Edith  and 
Mabel),  is  perfectly  certain  that  no  married  man  looks  at  women 
other  than  his  wife  with  such  eyes  nor  talks  to  them,  in  such  a 
voice  as  Brandon  has  used. 

"  No,"  says  Susan.  **  He  hasn't  got  the  look  nor  yet  the  ways 
of  a  married  gentleman." 

For,  in  Susan's  day,  bonds  set  less  lightly  on  wedded  folk  than 
to-day. 

"  He  seems  a  very  nice  gentleman,"  tentatively. 

"  Yes,"  answers  Vanessa,  half  lost  in  reverie.  "  Susan!"  start- 
ing up  suddenly  and  forgetting  tha>  her  nurse  has  hold  of  her 
by  the  hair  until  painfully  reminded  of  the  fact,  "  what  do  you 
think?" 

"  Lor',  my  dear,"  cries  Susan,  "  whatever  do  you  start  up  on  a 
sudden  like  that  for  ?  Why,  you've  made  me  tear  out  a  hand- 
ful!" 

"  Never  mind,"  returns  Vanessa,  indifferent  to  pain  in  her  ex- 
citement; "  he  said,"  her  face  all  aglow,  "  he  said  he  would  try 
to  get  papa  to  take  me  to  London  to  stay  with  him.  Oh!  Susanr 


18  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED: 

marching  up  and  down  the  room,  "  I  shall  die  of  pleasure  if  I 
fo,  and,"  suddenly  flinging  herself  on  the  bed,  "I  shall  die  of 
disappointment  if  I  don't." 

"Well  I  never!"  cries  Susan,  wrought  by  sympathy  to  an  al- 
most equal  pitch  of  excitement.  "  But  there,^  with  the  triumph 
Af  successful  prophecy,  "  I  always  said  it.  Mary  Ann  knows  it 
— she  can  prove  my  words — I  always  said  '  The  first  gentlemen 
As  ever  claps  eyes  on  Miss  Nessa,'  I  says,  says  I,  '  he'll  be  carry- 
ing of  her  off/  Ask  Mary  Ann  if  them  was  not  my  very  words." 

*'  Susan,"  interrupts  Vanessa,  sitting  upright  on  the  bed, 
**ughing  but  radiant  with  pleasure,  '*  don't  be  an  old  goose!" 

*'  I  see  it  all,"  continues  Susan,  the  mantle  of  prophecy  still 
draping  her;  "  you'll  go,  and  then  you'll  marry  him  and  be  one 
of  the  grandest  and  handsomest  ladies  in  London.  You'll  go  to 
Court,  and  you'll  take  the  shine  off  the  squire's  granddaughters 
and  a  good  many  more  of  'em.  I'm  sure's  he's  a  great  gentle- 
man—he looks  it  even  though  he  is  plain  Mister,  but  it  isn't 
always  the  titled  folk  as  is  the  best  families." 

If  Vanessa  affects  to  chide  her  nurse,  she  is  not  the  lees 
pleased,  not  to  say  dazzled,  by  her  predictions. 

Sir  Bertram,  who  at  this  moment  is  coldly  drawing  out  the 
details  of  her  future  life  (should  he  see  fit  to  put  into  execution 
the  idea  that  has  stricken  his  imagination),  would-be  very  much 
surprised  and  disgusted  if  he  could  be  aware  that  the  very  day 
which  has  given  him  this  inspiration  about  extending  the  scep- 
ter to  her  has  also,  by  a  strange  coincidence,  brought  a  rival  into 
the  field — a  rival  who  has  succeeded,  too,  in  taking  what  in  Sir 
Bertram's  eyes  is  of  no  account,  the  fancy  of  the  young  lady. 
Fancy!  "The  bow-string  and  sack  for  women  with  fancies," 
the  old  Turk  would  have  ordained  could  he  have  had  his  cruel 
will.  Indeed,  from  his  ideas  about  women,  there  is  no  doubt 
Sir  Bertram  ought  to  have  been  a  disciple  of  Mohammed. 

Susan  is  gone,  and  Vanessa  stands  on  the  open  casement, 
lovely,  love-desiring  as  Juliet.  She  stands  there  in  the  hush  of 
night,  looking  with  rapt  eyes  at  the  fair  sky,  weaving  dreams  of 
the  future,  the  future  that  seems  like  some  enchanted  land  to 
the  eyes  of  her  soul.  "What  does  it  hold  for  her!  love?  rapture  i 
Yes,  of  these  she  feels  joyously  confident.  To  see  the  world— 
to  taste  its  pleasures— to  love  and  be  beloved— this  is  the  ex- 
quisite mirage  the  blue  vault  of  heaven  offers  to  her  dazzled 
eyes. 

And  these  ideas,  cries  some  skeptical  reader,  come  hot-pressed 
to  the  mind  of  a  country  girl  who  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
talks  to  a  man  and  sees  that  he  admires  her.  Need  they  be  new 
ideas?  Dp  you  think  that  because  a  woman  does  not  come  in 
contact  with  men  the  desire  for  love  never  burns  in  her  heart? 
Do  you  think  the  dreamy  young  girl  who  loves  solitary  rambles 
and  gazes  by  night  at  the  stars  has  no  aspirations,  no  yearnings 
after  some  other,  fuller  life,  vague  though  her  thoughts  of  it  maj 
be?  Do  you  think  that  when  spring  and  sunshine  come,  waking 
all  nature  to  quicker  life,  the  hearts  which  Fate  has  left  to  soli- 
tude dp  not  cry  aloud  for  their  share  of  joy  and  love,  do  not 
agonizingly  rebel  against  their  forlorn  and  barren  doom  ?  &9 


Z--tl'AVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED^  19 

has  Vanessa  desired  and  rebelled,  but  to-night  heaven  seems  t« 
have  opened  for  her,  and  the  future  is  one  vast  garden  of  sun- 
shine and  promise. 

She  stands  at  the  window,  her  glorious  hair  making  a  gold 
mantle  over  her  white  dress;  unconscious  as  Juliet  of  a  lover 
lurking  in  the  garden.  Brandon,  not  accustomed  to  early  hours, 
has  asked  permission  of  his  host  to  stroll  another  half  hour  in 
the  air  with  his  cigar,  promising  to  look  to  the  bolts  and  bars 
on  his  return. 

"  We  do  not  trouble  about  those,"  the  vicar  has  told  him  smil- 
ing— "  we  have  no  thieves  here,  and  no  treasure  to  steal." 

Brandon  has  finished  one  cigar,  and  finding  the  night  so  ex- 
quisite, can  yet  not  make  up  his  mind  to  leave  it,  when,  in  the 
distance,  he  sees  Vanessa's  figure  at  the  window.  Stealthily  he 
creeps  from  tree  to  tree,  until  he  is  beneath  the  shadow  of  one 
near  enough  to  let  him  see  distinctly  her  upturned  face.  Could 
any  man  with  a  spark  of  poetry  in  him  behold  a  beautiful 
woman  standing  by  moonlight  at  a  window  and  not  think  of 
Juliet? 

She  cannot  see  him,  and  he  leans  against  the  tree's  trunk  and 
looks  his  fill. 

"  Ah,  my  poor  fellow!"  he  says,  presently,  apostrophizing  him- 
self between  smiling  mnd  sighing,  <;at  forty -three  one  is  past 
playing  the  part  of  Romeo — not  because  one  is  past  feeling  it, 
Heaven  knows,  but  because  it  becomes  ridiculous.  An  elderly 
Romeo!  Twenty  years  ago  I  could  have  done  it  well.  I  should 
like  to  do  it  now,  but  what  an  old  fool  she  would  think  met 
After  all,  though,"  turning  his  eyes  away  for  a  moment  from 
the  picture  of  Juliet  and  looking  far  away  as  one  does  when  deep 
in  thought,  "  does  a  man  love  better  at  twenty-three  than  forty- 
three?  His  blood  is  hotter:  that  would  make  him  a  better  lover; 
but  I  think  forty-three  loves  longer  and  deeper,  and  so  might 
make  the  better  husband.  Yes,  Romeo  must  be  young, 
but " 

Brandon  turns  his  eyes  wistfully  back  to  Juliet,  and  leaves  his 
sentence  unfinished.  He  has  been  going  about  the  world  for  five- 
and-twenty  years — he  knows  as  much  of  it  as  priest,  doctor,  and 
lawyer  ?all  in  one,  but  he  has  a  simple,  honest,  straightforward 
nature,  and  in  spite  of  all  he  has  heard,  read,  and  experienced, 
believes  in  God,  and  does  not  despise  women.  He  is  unmarried, 
not  from  contempt  and  hatred  of  that  state,  but  because  he  was 
rejected  by  the  only  woman  he  had  ever,  up  to  this  moment,  de- 
sired to  marry.  Twenty  years  ago,  when  he  would  have  fain  played 
Romeo  to  her  Juliet,  she  was,  he  remembers  at  this  moment, 
something  in  the  style  of  Vanessa,  but  not  near,  not  near  so 
lovely — she  is  a  large  and  portly  dame  now,  who  presented  a 
daughter  this  season.  Truly  men  have  the  best  of  it  in  this 
world;  they  may  have  a  Juliet  when  they  are  twenty-three, 
thirt}7 -three* :  forty-three,  and  so  on  even  up  to  seventy-three. 

The  moon  still  shines  on  half  the  latticed  casement — the  other 
half  remains  open,  but  Juliet  is  no  longer  there.  Brandon  has 
strolled  away  to  the  further  end  of  the  garden,  has  lighted 
another  cigar,  and  ia  sitting  deep  in  thought  on  that  same  bench 


20  HAVE    LIVED    ANP    LOVZB. 

where,  three  hours  since,  Vanessa  sat  beside  imn.  3ven  if  it 
wore  possible,  he  is  .saying  to  himself,  to  win  her  love,  it  would 
be  most  unfair  to  attempt  it  until  she  has  seen  something  of  the 
world,  has  mixed  with  other  men  (men  against  vvhom  John 
Brandon,  in  his  honest,  diffident  heart,  thinks  he  would  not 
have  the  smallest  chance).  She  is  young  and"  imaginative, 
th listing  for  pleasure  — it  is  quite  probable  that  here,  in  the 
country's  heart,  without  a  single  rival,  she  might  listen  to  his 
w<M'i>-.^  .  3  grow  to  think  she  loved  him.  And  if  he  could  keep 
her  here,  she  might  never  know  what  gallant  young 

Rom eos  were  wandering  up  and  down  the  world  in  perpetual 
search  of  Juliets;  but  Brandon  has  none  of  Sir  Bertram's  Oriental 
ideas  -indeed,  if  you  wanted  to  find  two  men  who  offered  the 
most  thorough  contrast  to  each  other,  you  could  no:;  have  sue- 
•U»u  better  than  in  choosing  the  two  who  to-day  became  as- 
pirants in  their  hearts  t«  Vanessa's  hand. 

Brandon  breaks  off  his  reverie,  determined  to  seek  no  unfair 
advantage,  and  bent  on  inducing  the  vicar  to  bring  his  daughter 
to  London. 

At  breakfast  next  morning  he  gayly  and  boldly  broaches  the 
subject. 

il  Wentworth,"  he  says,  in  his  cheery  voice,  *'  now  that  I  have 
enjoyed  your  hospitality,  you  must  come  and  taste  mine.  Miss 
Wentworth  and  I  have  hatched  a  little  conspiracy  to  carry  you 
off  to  London,  and  only  think,  my  dear  fellow,  what  an  oppor- 
tunity for  you  to  go  to  the  British  Museum,  and  get  valuable 
references  for  the  great  work!" 

Brandon  sees  the  hand  of  the  presiding  genius,  stretched  at 
this  moment  toward  the  sugar  basin,  tremble;  sees  the  faint  color 
flit  through  her  cheek,  and  her  eyes  dart  an  eager  look  at  her 
father. 

"  What'"  says  the  vicar,  half  smiling,  half  perplexed.  "  Why, 
my  dear  Brandon,  you  are  joking!'' 

"  \Ve  shall  settle  it  all  for  you."  answers  Brandon,  gayly — 
"  you  shall  have  no  trouble,  I  will  leave  you  a  w>.ole  week  to 
turn  it  over  in  your  mind,  and  then  I  shall  come  back  for  your 
answer.  ' 

Half  an  horn*  later  he  is  bidding  host  and  hostess  farewell  at 
their  gate,  as  he  has  to  be  in  London  that  night.  He  gazes  for  a 
moment  into  Vanessa's  eyes  as  he  bends  from  his  saddle  to  take 
her  hand  once  more,  and  there  is  a  fire  in  his  eyes  that  makes 
them  tell  even  .more  tales  than  they  told  last  night — tales  emi- 
nently pleasing  to  the  fair  maid  who  reads. 

She  1  ;  s  betaken  herself  to  that  bower  in  the  garden  where 
first  he  saw  her.  and  thither,  a  few  Moments  later, -comes  thf 
vic<tr,  hurrying.  He  is  unusually  excited;  an  open  letter  is  ir, 
his  hands. 

"Read  this,  my  dear,"  he  says,  ant*  vanessa  with  some  won- 
der takes  it  from  him  and  obsys 

"  DEAR,  <V\_ ,«TWORTH  '  (she  reads);— "Will  you  ana  you* 
daughter  give  m^  the  pleasure  of  your  company  at  jiinnet 


/    HAVS    LIVED    AND    LOVED,  £: 

to-night  at  eight  o'clock  precisely?     I  am  here  alone.     Tha 
brougham  shall  bring  you  and  take  you  home. 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

"BERTRAM  ORFORD," 


CHAPTER  IV, 

FATHER  and  daughter  exchange  glances— there  is,  indeed,  a 
look  almost  of  consternation  upon  both  their  faces — too  much 
honor  is  sometimes  overwhelming  to  those  upon  whom  it  is 
thrust  suddenly. 

Vanessa  has  been  to  the  Hall  now  and  then  to  dine  with 
the  squire's  granddaughter  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  on  which 
occasions  his  august  majesty  has  never  deigned  to  be  present; 
and,  now  afid  again,  the  vicar  had  been  invited  to  dine  during 
Mrs.  Vaughan's  stay.  There  had  'been  no  sending  of  carriages, 
however,  to  fetch  either  of  them:  thus  this  sudden  condescen- 
sion is  felt  by  both  to  be  not  only  startling  but  embarrassing. 

"  I  suppose  we  must  go,"  says  the  vicar,  looking  doubtfully  at 
his  daughter, 

"  But  I  have  nothing  to  wear,"  exclaims  Vanessa,  her  femi- 
nine instinct  triumphing  at  once  over  every  other  thought. 

"  Sir  Bertram  will  not  expect  any  very  great  display  of  dress, 
I  dare  say,"  answers  the  vicar,  in  a  nervous,  flurried  manner," 
"  and  we  must  not  run  the  risk  of  offending  him  since  he  is  so 
kind.  I  will  go  and  write  an  acceptance." 

Vanessa  is  quite  excited.  A  new  era  seems  to  have  com- 
menced in  her  life.  She  has  retired  to  this  bower  to  dream 
about  Brandon;  to  recall  his  looks  and  words;  to  feast  on  the 
thought  that  a  being  from  the  outer  world  has  seen  her — a  being 
who  lives  habitually  in  the  sight  of  beautiful  and  well-born 
women,  and  has  yet  not  despised  her;  to  dwell  with  rapture  on 
the  thought  of  going  to  visit  the  great  city;  but  this  command 
to  dine  at  the  Hall  drives  everything  else  out  of  her  head  for  the 
moment,  and  she  hastens  to  seek  Susan  jind  to  consult  with  her 
upon  her  toilet  for  the  evening. 

Susan  is  in  a  jubilant  and  triumphant  frame  of  mind;  she  is 
no  longer  surprised  at  anything — she  indulges  in  an  innocent 
kind  of  self-glorification  at  her  own  sagacity,  and  reiterates  at 
intervals  with  ever-increasing  emphasis  that  she  knew  how  it 
would  be  all  along.  She  even  goes  so  far  as  to  consider  herself 
the  humble  instrument  of  this  honor,  for  she  says: 

"  If  I  hadn't  thought  of  getting  you  to  go  up  to  Mary  Ann, 
why.  you  wouldn't  have  met  the  squire,  and,  if  you  hadn't  have 
met  the  squire,  he  couldn't  have  been  so  took  with  you." 

But  this  allusion  to  her  shame  and  suffering  of  yesterday  is 
unpalatable  to  Vanessa,  and  she  hastens  to  change  the  subject. 

A  more  beautiful  creature  than  the  girl  who,  in  her  simple 
muslin  dress,  with  the  knot  of  white  roses  in  her  hair,  enters 
the  Hall  drawing-room  that  evenmg  would  be  hard  to  find.  She 
trembles  and  feels  agonizingly  shy,  but  it  is  with  the  graceful 
shyness  of  modesty,  not  the  shyness  of  awkwardness.  Sir  Ber- 
tram recogni«es  and  approves  it;  personages,  I  am  told3  are 


32  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

gratified  by  seeing  that  they  inspire  awe,  and  are  far  more  prepos- 
sessed by  timidity  in  subjects  than  undue  confidence.  Here,  at 
all  events.  Sir  Bertram  is  autocrat  and  king  of  the  castle.  It 
pleases  him  to  live  in  semi-state  at  the  Hall;  therefore,  though 
he  almost  invariably  dines  alone,  the  appointments  of  the  table 
are  as  imposing  as  though  he  were  entertaining  a  party — the 
silver  stands  in  array  on  the  sideboard,  rare  flowers  'ornament 
the  table,  the  finest  fruits  the  hot-houses  produce  are  served  for 
their  master. 

This  morning  Sir  Bertram  has  requested  Mrs.  Marter  to  be  par- 
ticularly choice  in  her  menu,  and  to  direct  her  attention  espe- 
cially to  the  sweets. 

"  Young  ladies,"  he  observed,  and  his  features  actually  relaxed 
jnto  a  smile,  "  think  most  of  that  part  of  dinner." 

At  this,  Mrs.  Marter,  making  mention  of  the  interview  later 
to  her  sister,  described  herself  as  being  reduced  to  that  state  of 
moral  and  physical  weakness  when  a  feather  would  have  been 
sufficient  to  prostrate  her.  But  she,  who  was  as  quick  at  seeing 
through  a  milestone  as  Susan,  drew  her  own  auguries  at  once. 

Vanessa  experienced  a  kind  of  enchantment  of  the  senses  as 
she  sut  at  dinner,  surrounded  by  beautiful  and  luxurious  objects; 
flowers  such  as  she  had  never  seen  before  massed  together  in 
profusion,  and  wafting  new  and  delicious  perfumes  toward  her. 
From  the  broad  windows  stretched  the  wide  and  lovely  view — 
the  sky  was  one  golden  glory.  The  squire  had  insisted  on 
her  tasting  his  champagne,  and  even  the  few  dainty  sips  she 
had  indulged  in  had  sent  a  pleasant  exhilaration  through  her 
veins:  made  her  eyes  sparkle,  -and  dispersed  her  first  shyness. 
Was  it  a  dream  or  a  reality?  The  squire,  monster  and  ogre  of 
all  her  previous  thoughts,  transformed  into  a  genial,  courteous 
host;  talking  to  her  without  a  trace  of  condescension  or  patron- 
age in  his  manner,  and  exerting  himself  to  amuse  and  interest 
her! 

The  vicar,  most  absent  of  men,  accustomed  to  eat  in  unbroken 
silence,  was  lost  in  abstruse  reflections,  and  the  squire  was  there- 
fore at  liberty,  wjthout  discourtesy  to  the  father,  to  confine  his 
attentions  to  the  daughter.  And,  without  Vanessa  being  aware 
of  it.  he  \vas  watching  her  narrowly;  observing  her  every  ac- 
tion, scanning  her  every  feature,  weighing  her  graces  and  beau- 
ties in  his  cynical  mind,  and.  strange  to  say,  not  finding  her 
wanting.  To  say  that  he  was  falling  in  love  with  her  would  be 
inappropriate — so  soft  an  emotion  had  no  part  in  Sir  Bertram's 
nature;  such  sense  as  he  had  she  stirred;  the  possession  of  hei 
beauty  would  be  flattering  to  his  pride:  she  had  all  the  elements 
of  a  charming  and  lovely  woman  whom  wealth  and  rank  would 
set  as  silver  sets  diamonds,  bringing  stray  stones  together  into  a 
superb  ornament.  Whilst  they  yet  sat  at  dinner  he  resolved 
that  Venessa  should  be  Lady  Or ford. 

That  young  damsel,  as  he  held  the  door  open  for  her  when  she 
repaired  to  the  drawing-roonf,  was  not  without  some  intuition 
of  the  impression  she  had  produced  on  the  squire,  and  a  sense 
of  power  made  a  certain  triumph  tingle  in  her  veins  such  as  th« 
first  taste  of  it  gives  to  those  who  love  and  are  born  to  wield  it 


f   HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  38 

Ami  Vanessa,  though  circumstances  had  placed  her  in  so  lowly 
and  isolated  a  position,  had  the  instincts  ascribed  to  a  young 
empress.  She  threw  herself  into  a  low  chair  near  the  window, 
and  looked  out  over  the  terrace  a*hd  across  the  park.  She  would 
have  liked  to  fly  to  the  housekeeper's  room  and  pour  her  wonder, 
surprise,  and  admiration  into  the  sympathizing  ears  of  Mary 
Ann,  but  something  told  her  that  a  gait  divided  her  from  yes- 
terday: that  now  she  was  Sir  Bertram's  guest  she  could  not  be 
Mary  Ann's— at  all  events,  whilst  the  squire  was  at  home. 

And  now,  leaning  back  in  the  luxurious  chair,  her  fa,ce  fanned 
by  the  soft  west  wind,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  last  paling  cloud 
that  erewhile  was  so  vivid  a  red,  her  thoughts  turn  again  to  Bran- 
don. If  he  were  but  the  squire!  If?  Why  not  if  earth  were 
paradise  at  once!  What  pleasure  would  run  through  John  Bran- 
don's veins  if  he  knew  how  Vanessa  was  thinking  of  him!  But 
later  he  would  have  reflected,  "  I  am  the  only  man  she  has  seen 
— she  wants  to  love — it  is  the  emotion  that  charms  her — there- 
fore the  first  man  she  meets  with  the  smallest  pretension  to 
pleasing  a  woman  would  succeed  in  fixing  her  fancy.  But  how 
about  afterward  when  she  sees  other  men  ?"  That  is  what  John 
Bandon  would  have  said:  what  later  on  he  did  say  to  himself, 
and  his  estimation  of  4lie  situation  was  perfectly  correct. 

Vanessa  is  not  left  long  to  reverie — the  hard,  thin  voice  of  the 
squire,  modulated  by  considerable  effort,  breaks  on  her  ear. 

"  Deep  in  thought!"  it  says.  "I  wonder  if  one  might  venture 
to  ask  the  nature  of  your  reflections  ?" 

Since  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  reply,  "  I  was  wishing 
that  you  were  Mr.  Brandon,"  we  may  forgive  her  for  not  ad- 
hering to  the  truth  on  this  occasion. 

"I  was  thinking,"  she  answers,  "how  lovely  this  view  is, 
and  how  nice  it  must  be  to  live  up  so  high  instead  of  down  be- 
low.'' 

•4  Do  you  think  you  would  like  to  live  here  ?"  says  Sir  Bertram, 
in  so  meaning  a  tone  that  Vanessa's  cheeks  and  throat  are 
flooded  with  crimson  in  a  moment.  To  hide  her  embarrassment 
she  almost  turns  her  back  to  her  host  and  exclaims,  with  un- 
necessary eagerness: 

"There  is  the  moon  coming  up  behind  the  trees.  How 
lovely!" 

"Shall  we  take  a  turn  in  the  garden?"  asks  Sir  Bertram. 
"  Your  father  has  found  some  wonderful  book  in  the  library,  and 
is  lost  to  everything  else." 

Vanessa  expresses  her  willingness,  and  the  squire  proceeds  to 
ring  the  bell. 

"  I  am  going  to  send  for  your  hat  and  shawl,  "he  says,  but  she 
tells  him  that  she  has  not  even  brought  any.  He,  however,  not 
being  animated  by  the  recklessness  of  young  folk,  but  having, 
instead,  a  rooted  mistrust  of  the  climate  of  his  country,  puts  on 
his  hat,  hangs  a  light  coat  over  his  arm,  and,  thus  prepared, 
steps  out  on  the  terrace  where  Vanessa  is  waiting  for  him. 

•Sir  Bertram  has  no  intention  of  frightening  his  quarry  by  too 
hasty  a  pursuit,  but  as  he  is  quite  determined  to  possess  her, 
goes  to  work  slowly,  and,  as  he  thinks,  surely.  He  intends  te 


34  /    HAVE    LIVZD    AND    LOVED. 

appeal  to  those  feelings  and  senses  in  her  which  in  his  opinion 
are  the  strongest  motive-power  in  her  sex  —vanity,  ambition,  love 
of  luxury  and  di  When  she  is  fully  alive  to  how  much 

there  wi!l  he  to  c  i»ady  Orford,  he  has  no  doubt  of 

his  suit  being  succ -essful.  He  has  always  employed  the  sam-3 
tactics  with  \vonu  n.  in  .sting  them  with  a  calculating  lavishneas 
and  generosity,  and  to  this  lie  has  owed  the  apparent  success 
with  them  which  has  surprised  and  not  unfrequently  disgusted 
men  with  far  more  pretensions  in  themselves  to  please  tke  fair. 
He  is  coldly  aware  that  any  symptom  of  love  or  passion  in  a 
man  of  his  age  must  be  necessarily  repellent  and  disgusting  to 
a  young  girl,  and  he  has  quite  sufficient  self-command,  im- 

i  though  he  is  by  her  beauty,  to  assume  nothing  warmer 
than  a  paternal  and  kindly  manner  which  shall  gradually  win 
her  confidence  without  alarming  or  shocking  her.  He  is  quite 
conte.  his  time.  It  is  all  very  well  for  youth  to  snatch 

at  whi : ;  It  covets;  but  elders  may  trip  or  stumble,  and  must  walk 
qui-  the  object  of  their  pursuit. 

feelings  this'  evening,  though  of  an  entirely  differ- 
ent nature  from  those  of  yesterday,   are  decidedly  agreeable. 

•ide  and  vanity  are  extremely  gratified  by  the  attentions 
of  the  greatest  personage  whom  ehe  has  ever  .seen  or  known. 
For  the  awe  and  respect  in  which  Sir  Bertfam.  is  held  in  his  own 
domain  exceeds  that  which  is  offered  to  many  a  potentate  by 
his  subjects.  Has  not  she  herself  trembled  before  him  ?  And 
here,  to-night,  she  is  walking  fearlessly  beside  him — a  favored 
guest— one  whom  he  is  unmistakably  pleased  to  honor.  What 
woman  would  believe  me  If  I  said  that  Vanessa  failed  to  con- 
nect this  strange  and  sudden  change  with  her  own  beauty; 
failed  to  guess  that  the  squire,  in  condescending;  almost  for 
the  first  time  to  take  any  particular  notice  of  her,  had  found 
that  she  was  fair?  She  had  her  looking-glass,  besides  the  con- 
stant eulogies  and  glory  if  yings  of  Mary  Ann  and  Susan  to  tell 

much — all  she  wanted  was  the  opportunity  of  comparing 

:'  with  other  women  to  know  what  the  degree  of  her  beauty 
was. 

Vanessa  has  no  desire  to  "  blush  unseen;  "  she  wants  to  be  ad- 
mired, and  more,  much  more,  to  be  loved.  Certainly  she  has 
no  ambition  to  be  loved  by  the  squire;  but  she 'likes  immensely 
to  Jbe  treated  with  distinction  by  him,  and  thus  to  win  increased 
respect  and  consideration  from  others.  Sir  Bertram  talks  pleas- 
antly to  her;  tells  her  ftiuch  about  the  world,  especially  those 
vanities  and  trivialities  of  it  which  he  knows  to  be  so  pleasing^to 
the  female  ear.  and,  before  they  return  to  the  house,  he  has 
made  a  proposal  to  Vanessa  which  causes  her  eyes  to  glisten  and 
her  red  lips  to  part  with  an  exclamation  of  delight.  How  would 

she  like  to  drive  over  to  B ,  that  seaport  town  which  she 

once  before  visited  in  company  with  Edith  and  Mabel?  The 
squire,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  is  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  a  little 
sensitive  on  some  points — he  does  not  speak  of  these  young 
ladies  to  Vanessa  as  hi*  granddaughters.  The  weather  promises 
to  hold  fine  -if  it  pleases  her,  he  will  send  on  horses  to-nior- 
low,  and.  -  the  folio WIP~  day,  they  will  s^-t  at  half  part 


I    HAVE    LTVED    ANT>    LOVED.  35 

ken  and  drive  over.  He  is  confident  the  vicar  will  not  make  any 
objection. 

I  cannot  expect  any  reader  who  leads  at  all  a  gay  and  fashion- 
able lite,  nor  even  one  v.-ith  whom  excursions  and  parties  of 
pleasure  are  occasional  incidents,  to  imagine  how  delightful  this 
proposition  was  to  Vanessa,  who  lived  year  in,  year  out,  with 
nothing  to  break  the  monotony  of  he/  life.  Sir  Bertram  was 
charmed  to  see  her  delight  and  excitement  at  the  proposal;  if 
she  was,  so  eager  for  pleasure,  he  had  a  very  excellent  chance  of 
success  by  ministering  to  her  appetite.  He  had  one  very  shrewd 
conviction,  however,  and  that  was  that  he  must  keep  other  men, 
younger  men,  away  from  her  until  she  was  Lady  Orford.  After 
that  he  charged  himself,  in  perfect  confidence,  with  the  care  of 
his  honor. 

Vanessa  went  home  full  of  triumph  and  excitement,  entirely 
shared  by  the  faithful  Susan.  When  she  fell  asleep  she  dreamed 
that  she  was  up  at  the  Hall  again,  but  the  squire  had  turned  into 
Mr.  Brandon.  She  could  almost  have  cried  for  disappointment 
when  she  awoke  to  find  it  was  only  a  dream — it  had  been  so 
transcendently  delightful. 

Saturday  came  and  brought  lovely  weather.  Punctual  to  a 
moment  tna  squire's  barouche,  with  its  fine  black  horses,  rolled 
up  to  the  Vicarage  door,  and  Vanessa  and  her  father  mounted 
into  it;  she  obeying  Sir  Bertram's  gesture  and  taking  the  seat  of 
honor  beside  him,  although  she  would  fain,  from  a  sense  of 
duty,  have  relinquished  it  to  her  father.  The  radiance  of  hap- 
piness added  fourfold  to  her  beauty;  she  had  a  delicious  sense 
of  importance  as  she  drove  through  the  village  and  saw  the 
wondering  stares  of  the  courtesying  and  bobbing  folk.  The 
gwift  motion  through  the  air  and  the  swing  of  the  luxurious 
carriage  were  new  and  agreeable  sensations:  the  fine  liveries  of 
the  servants  and  the  footman's  powdered  head  pleased  her  eyes 
and  gratified  her  pride.  Sir  Bertram,  watching  her  quietly, 
read  her  like  a  booK.and  thought  what  an  easy  bird  a  pretty 
won- an  is  to  catch.  Then,  you  see,  he  knew  nothing  about  John 
Brandon;  nor  did  he  further  know7  that  Vanessa  was  one  of 
those  women  who.  though  they  delight  in  pleasure,  excitement, 
and  the  vanities  of  life,  would  "no  more  be  induced  to  marry  a 
man  they  did  not  love  than  to  sell  themselves  to  the  powers  of 
darkness.  If  such  women  can  feel  the  intensity  of.  love,  they 
Buffer  in  an  even  greater  degree  the  intensity  of  repulsion,  and 
would  almost  rather  endure  death  than  submit  to  an  embrace 
from  a  man  they  do  not  love. 

If  Vanessa,  as  is  quite  probable,  had  her  little  suspicions  that 
the  squire's  amazing  kindness  was  not  entirely  disinterested, 
she  had  no  more  idea  of  encouraging  his  suit  than  if  he  had 
beery  her  own  grandfather  instead  of  Edith's  arid  Mabel's;  but 
that  was  no  reason  why  she  should  not  enjoy  the  favors  which, 
just  at  present,  he  seemed  inclined  to  shower  upon  her.  < 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock  when  they  drew  up  with  a  clatter  at 
the  door  of  the  principal  hotel,  where  the  landlord,  apprised  of 
their  intended  visit,  stood  on  the  steps  to  receive  them  with  be- 
coming honor.  As  she  descended  from  the  carriage,  there 


26  1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

flashed  upon  Vanessa  like  lightning  the  memory  of  an  incident 
which  occurred  on  the  only  occasion  when  she  had  ever  been  in 

B .  She  had  driven  over  with  Edith,  Mabel,  and  their  maid 

some  three  years  ago  in  the  wagonette,  and  as  they  reached  the 
door  a  gentleman  was  standing  on  the  steps  smoking  a  cigar, 
which,  as  the  young  ladies  advanced,  he  removed  from  hig 
mouth.  Vanessa,  looking  up,  beheld  a  being  who  presented  so 
remarkable  a  likeness  to  »  picture  of  St.  George  which  she  had 
always  been  desperately  in  love  with  in  default  of  a  living  hero, 
that  in  her  admiration  and  surprise  she  stumbled  up  one  step, 
and  would  have  fallen  but  that  he  sprung  forward  to  assist  her. 
His  eye's  met  hers  as  he  just  raised  his  hat,  having  helped  her  to 
regain  her  balance,  and  they  certainly  expressed  as  much  ad- 
miration intentionally  as  hers  did  Unintentionally.  She  did  not 
see  him  again,  but  ever  afterward  he  did  duty  in  her  imagina- 
tion for  everyjiero,  knight,  or  prince  of  whom  she  read.  To-day 
she  half  expects  to  see  him  standing  there  still,  but  there  is  only 
the  landlord,  with  a  couple  of  satellites  in  somewhat  shiny  black 
raiment, 

Vanessa  does  ample  justice  to  the  luncheon  prepared  for  them 
according  to  the  best  lights  of  the  hotel  cook.  Sir  Bertram, 
whose  theory  it  is  that  women  have  all  the  meaner  vices,  in- 
cluding greediness,  does  yet  not  object  to  see  them  eat  so  long 
as  they  eat  gracefully  and  ungluttonously;  and,  on  this  head,  he 
can  find  no  fault  with  Vanessa,  who  has  the  instincts  of  a  lady 
to  her  finger-tips. 

Luncheon  over,  the  squire  proposes  a  stroll  to  look  at  the  shops 
and  the  sea — the  vicar  makes  a  call  on  a  learned  friend  who 
lives  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  A  good  many  of  Sir  Ber- 
tram's acquaintances  would  be  considerably  surprised  to  see 
him  standing  patiently  on  the  pavement  whilst  his  fair  corn- 
pa  i lion  flattens  her  nose  with  eager  delight  against  the  trumpery 
little  shop-window.  At  first,  in  shyness  and  fear  of  him,  she 
had  offered  to  pass  them  by  without  lingering,  but  he  had  caught 
the  yearning  look  in  her  e€yes.  and  said  at  once,  in  his  best  and 
most  reassuring  manner: 

'"  We  have  come  out  for  a  day's  pleasuring r  and  I  know  what 
one  of  the  favorite  amusements  of  ladfes  is.  so  pray,  my  dear" 
(quite  paternally),  "gratify  yourself  to  your  heart's  content." 

So  Vanessa  takes  her  fill  of  rapture,  and  with  difficulty  re- 
presses the  oh's  and  ah's  which  rush  to  her  lips  at  the  sight  of 
so  many  treasures.  Perhaps  the  jewelers  shop  pleases  her  the 
most. 

"  A   poor  show,"  observes  Sir  Bertram,  with  sont«  contempt. 

Now  what  is  your  idea  of  the  prettiest  object  here?''  and,  with- 
out hesitation,  Vanessa  points  to  a  somewhat  old-fashioned  gold 
locket  with  a  spray  of  turquois  forget-me-nots  set  in  the  center, 

"  Your  taste  is  good,"  the  squire  says,  approvingly — "  that  is 
•  really  the  only  pretty  thing  in  the  window." 

»She  smiles,  liking  to  be  praised  as  every  woman  does  who  is 
what  John  Brandon  calls  "  a  woman  all  over.1' 

Presently  they  come  out  upon  the  sea,  and  make  their  way 
to  the  end  of  the  short  wooden  pier.  And  there  Vanessa  stand^ 


I  ~ HAVE    LIVED    AND    *,OVE&-  27 

fapt  and  silent,  forgetful  of  the  squire  and  of  everything  and 
every  one  on  earth.  She  stands  and  looks  at  the  dark- blue  water 
flecked  with  green  and  purple,  dsincing,  shining,  glittering  in 
the  sun,  and  the  wild  yearning  sweeps  over  her  which  the  sea 
kindles  in  some  hearts.  It  fills  the  happy  with  a  mighty  sense  of 
power  and  rapture;  to  them  it  is  like  a  pulse  beating  madly  with 
joy,  with  all  the  strength,  vitality,  and  buoyancy  of  youth;  to  the 
wretched  it  is  full  of  cruelty  and  mockery,  overwhelming  them 
•with  a  sense  of  immeasurable  despair.  Vanessa's  heart  is  filled 

ith  a  mad  yearning  for  happiness  and  pleasure — she  is  carried 
out  of  herself;  she  leans  her  arms  on  the  wooden  balustrade  and 
looks  into  the  sapphire  waters  with  entranced  eyes,  as  though 
they  pierced  the  waves  and  saw  some  Paradise  beneath. 

And  the  squire,  who  no  longer  experiences  sensations  himself, 
ftnd-is  as  blase  as  most  men  who  have  lived  much  and  thought 
much,  and  off  whom  time  has  worn  what  small  veneration  they 
once  possessed,  watches  her  with  a  certain  curiosity,  if  without 
any  particular  sympathy.  Sympathy!  nay,  no  word  in  the 
vocabulary  could  be  less  appropriate  to  describe  Sir  Bertram's 
i'eelings  at  any  time  than  that. 

He  would  have  defined  the  girl's  passionate  yearnings  as  the 
strong  animal  instincts  of  youth;  wonder  inspired  by  the  un- 
known, the  unexperienced;  curiosity  struggling  against  igno- 


CHAPTER  V. 

THIS  was  one  of  the  few  days  which  Vanessa  had  passed  in  her 
life  worthy  to  be  marked  with  a  white  stone.  Could  she  foresee 
the  strange  transformation  her  life  is  to  undergo — the  mingled 
pains  arid  passions,  raptures  and  agonies  that  lie  before  her — 
would  she  shrink  back  terrified,  or  would  she  go  boldly  out  to 
meet  her  fate?  Promise  a  young  and  passionate  heart  love,  and 
bliss  through  love,  and  what  will  it  reck  of  any  after-pang! 

Sir  Bertram,  having  resolved  that  this  lovely  girl  should  be 
his,  laid  himself  out  consistently  for  the  achievement  of  his  pur- 
pose; put  aside  his  autocratic  airs,  and  forebore  to  launch  the 
withering  sarcasms,  the  cynical  strictures,  which  he,  as  a  rule, 
indulged  in. 

As  they  were  nearing  home,  he  produced  from  his  breast 
pocket  a  morocco  case  and  presented  it  to  Vanessa. 

"  When  one  goes  on  a  jaunt  one  buys  fairings,"  he  says,  in  the 
mellowest  tone  he  can  command. 

Vanessa's  face  flushes  with  delight  and  surprise  as  she  opens' 
the  case  and  finds  there  the  locket  with  the  forget-me-not  spray. 

"  Oh,  Sir  Bertram!     Oh,  papa!'' 

The  squire  reflects  how  often  he  has  spent  hundreds  of  pounds 
on  nrjewel  and  not  won  a  fiftieth  part  of  the  gratitude  that 
beams  from  the  lovely  eyes  now  gazing  into  his,  It  convinces 
him  more  than  ever  that  women  ought  to  be  slaves,  looking  to 
one  hand  alone  for  their  pleasures;  not  allowed  to  rove  about  in 
freedom,  growing  capricious,  insatiable,  intolerable  in  their 
vagaries  like  wild,  irresponsible  animals  (as  they  are);  corrupted 


88  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND 

by  admiration,  an.  I  devoured  by  overweening  vanity  and  i'n* 
puderit  confidence  in  the  unlimited  power  of  their  own  beauty. 

As  Vanessa  and  her  father  sit  over  their  "high  tea"  that 
evening,  the  vicar  says,  breaking  from  one  of  his  accustomed 
reveries: 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear,  I  think  we  have  been  rather  in  the 
habit  of  misjudging  Sir  Bertram.  The  thought  really  concerns 
me." 

4i  Yes/'  replied  Vanessa,  eagerly,  "  I'm  sure  we  have.  I  am 
quite  sorry  for  all  the  names  I  have  called  him.  He  is  quite  * 
dear  old  man,  and  I  will  never  say  another  word  against  him.'* 

Three  or  four  days  pass — again  the  vicar  and  his  daughter  have 
dined  at  the  Hall — the  squire  has  paid  a  visit  to  the  Vicarage, 
bringing  in  his  own  hand  an  offering  of  choice  fruit  to  Vanessa, 
and  spending  nearly  an  hour  seated  beside  her  in  that  bower 
where  Brandon  first  espied  her.  He,  Brandon,  is  not  in  any  dan- 
ger of  being  forgotten  by  her — when  a  girl's  heart  is  ripe  for  love, 
and  she  has  seen  and  spoken  with  a  man  who  stands  to  her  in 
the  light  of  a  possible  lover,  however  different  he  may  in  poinl 
of  fact  be  from  the  ideal  she  once  conceived,  it  would  take  some- 
thing more  than  a  trip  to  the  sea  or  the  attentions  of  an  elderly 
beau  like  Sir  Bertram  to  wrest  her  thoughts  from  him.  It  is 
with  the  keenest  pleasure  she  has  ever  experienced  that  she 
reacfs  a  letter  which  her  father  hands  her  one  morning  at  break- 
fast: 

"  ?«!Y  DEAR  WENT  WORTH, — You  are  still,  I  hope,  turning  over 
in  your  mind  the  possibility  of  paying  me  a  visit  here.  I  suppose 
It  can  hardly  be  managed  just  yet,  because,  when  you  do  come, 
you  must  stay  at  least  two  or  three  weeks,  and  there  isyoursul> 
stitute  to  be  arranged  for.  The  season  is  all  but  over,  and  next 
week  I  go  to  Goodwood,  having  a  month  since  agreed  to  make 
one  of  a  party  for  the  races.  But  I  am  longing  to  show  Misa 
Wentworth  the  wonders  of  town,  and,  by  the  way,  don't  you 
forget  the  benefit  to  be  derived  for  the  magnum  opus  by  your 
^isit.  I  wonder  whether  you  will  vote  me  a  bore  if  I  run  down 
on  Thursday  for  a  day  or  two  ?  I  have  fallen  in  love  with  your 
rural  dwelling-place;  the  pure  air  there  seems  to  give  me  fresh 

life.     I  discovered,  after  I  left  you,  on  my  way  back  to  L ,  a 

charming  little  inn  about  six  miles  from  you,  and  I  am  going  to 
send  a  horse  there,  so  that  1  can  ride  over  and  see  you  of  a  day* 
and  thus  not  run  the  risk'of  wearing  out  my  welcome,  as  I  hope 
to  repeat  my  visit  once  or  twice  during  the  summer  and  autumn* 
I  promise  not  to  interfere  with  your  graver  occupations— per- 
haps Miss  Wentworth  will  take  pity  upon  me  and  let  me  dawdla 
about  and  enjoy  the  dolce  far  niente  in  her  company. 

"  Yours  ever,  JOHN  BRANDON." 

Vanessa  looks,  as  she  feels,  delighted. 

"'But,  papa,"  she  cries,  "  why  should  he  not  come  here?" 

"  I  think,"  answers  her  father,  unconsciously  betray  ing  a  little 
of  the  combined  selfishness  of  the  man  and  the  book  worm, kt  I 
Hiink  his  suggestion  ife  a  very  good  one." 

"  I  dare  say, '  remarks  Vanessa,  her  head  already  teeming  witfc 


l^HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  2ft 

plans  tor  his  amusement,  "  the  squire  will  ask  him  up  to  dinner 
one  night,  if  he  knows  that  he  is  here."  And  her  fancy  draws  a 
Charming  picture  of  herself  and  Brandon  standing  out  together 
on  the  terrace  in  the  glories  of  the  golden  sunset,  looking  first  at 
the  earthly  paradise  before  them,  and  then— perhaps— in  the 
soul's  paradise  of  each  other's  eyes,  whilst  the  squire  and  her 
father  sit  over  their  wine  in  the  dining-room,  as  befits  elderly 
gentlemen.  She  persists  in  ignoring  that  Brandon  and  her 
father  are  contemporaries,  though  she  perfectly  well  remembers 
that  the  squire  is  old  enough  to  be  her  grandfather.  She  counts 
the  hours  until  he  shall  come— she  stands  in  front  of  her  glass 
pinning  up  and  pulling  down  her  auburn  locks  a  dozen  times  be- 
fore she  can  decide  what  style  becomes  her  best.  When  he  ar- 
rives, she  greets  him  like  an  old  friend,  jmd  Brandon  finds  the 
glances  of  her  lovely  eyes  terribly  upsetting  to  his  honorable 
theories  about  not  taking  advantage  of  her  ignorance  of  the 
world,  and  his  exceptional  position  as  the  only  eligible  man  of  " 
her  acquaintance.  He  sees  and  knows  that,  if  he  uttered  words 
of  love,  she  would  listen  to  them;  he  burns  to  speak  them,  yet 
refrains,  but  what  his  lips  hesitate  to  reveal  his  eyes  unsparingly 
betray.  What  man  can  look  at-a  beautiful  woman  whom  he  al- 
ready loves  with  cold,  unexpressive  eyes  ?  If  there  be  o"ne  so  al- 
together self-contained,  it  is  not  Brandon.  He  arrives  between 
two  and  three,  and  intends  to  ride  away  again  at  seven.  Being 
tlje  most  thoughtful  and  considerate  of  men,  it  has  occurred  to 
him  that  to  entertain  him  may  tax  their  powers  too  much — he 
has  therefore  made  known  by  letter  the  intended  time  and  dura- 
tion of  his  visit. 

He  and  Vanessa  are  sitting  under  the  shade  of  a  big  tree.  Her 
lips  are  rippling  ovef  with  gav  talk,  and  her  eyes  beam  smiles 
upon  him.  Brandon  is  unusually  silent — his  whole  attention  is 
concentrated  in  watching  her.  And,  indeed,  she  has  a  face  so 
perfect  that  you  may  look  forever  without  discovering  a  flaw, 
and  so  varying  in  expression  that  it  defies  you  to  weary  by  long 
gazing. 

"I  have  been  quite  gay  since  you  were  here,"  she  tells  him; 
"  the  most  wonderful  event  has  occurred." 

"  Really?"  he  says,  smiling.     "  You  pique  my  curiosity/' 

' 'Do  you  remember,"  she  proceeds,  her  eyes  brimming  over 
with  laughter,  "  that  I  told  you  our*  squire  was  a  horrid,  dis- 
agreeable old  wretch,  and  that  I  hated  him?" 

"I  do,"  smiles- Brandon.  "  And  I  remember  pitying  him  for 
having  inspired  you  with  such  a  bad  opinion." 

"Well,"  says  Vanessa,  gayly,  "  he  is  changed— a  complete 
transformation  has  come  over  him.  He  is  quite  a  dear,  and  I 
love  him." 

Lest  the  reader  should  at  any  time  be  surprised  by  this 
maiden,  shut  up  in  the  country,  expressing  herself  like  a  woman 
of  fashion,  I  must  recall  to  him  that  she  is  the  bosom  friend  of 
two  young  ladies  who  are  in  the  world's  charmed  circle,  and 
whose  ideas  and  expressions  she  is  apt  to  imbibe  and  imitate. 

''He  is  qiiite  a  dear  now,  is  he  ?"  echoes  Brandon.  "And 
what  has  he  done  to  change  your  opinion  so  suddenly  ?" 


90  Jf    HAVE    LIVED     AND     LOVED 

"  Until  this  time,"  says  Vanessa,  "  he  was  always  horrid  and 
disagreeable:  l<e  took  no  notice  of  me,  and, Indeed,  I  used  to 
nm  away  and  hide  if  I  saw  him  coming,  but  this  time" — exult- 
inglv — "  lie  lias  asked  us  twice  to  dinner,  and  was  so  kind  and 
pleasant,  not  a  bit  like  what  lie  was  or  „ what  I  fancied  him;  he 
sends  us  tli!'  most  lovely  fruit,  and  on  Saturd ay—  only  think! — 

he  drove  us  over  in  his  carriage  to  B to  spend  the  day.  I 

never  spent  such  a  delightful  day  in  my  life.  And  " — taking  the 
locket  at  her  white  throat  between  her  fingers — "  he  bought  me 
this." 

Brandon  has  not  the  smallest  difficulty  in  reading  between  the 
lines. 

"  The  old  wretch!"  he  says  to  himself,  and  a  sick  shudder  goes 
through  him,  "how  horrible!  how  monstrous!''  His  thoughts 
change  the  expression  of  his  eyes,  as,  looking  at  her,  he  feels 
the  horror  of  her  young  beaut y "  being  given  to  a  heartless  old 
roue. 

Vanessa  glances  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  Why  do  you  look  like  that?"  she  says. 

"  Like  what!"  and  Brandon  smiles  and  shakes  off  the  disagree- 
able sensation  that  just  now  possessed  him. 

"I  do  not  believe,"  observes  Vanessa,  "that  you  heard  what  I 
was  talking  about.  You  were  thinking  of  something  else.  I 
was  telling  you  of  the  squire's  kindness,  and  you  looked  as  if 
you  saw  something  disagreeable  behind  me.  "  I  haven't  got  a 
caterpillar  or  anything  horrid  crawling  on  me,  have  I  ?"  putting 
vp  her  hand. 

"No,"  he  laughs.  "But  you  are  mistaken.  I  heard  every 
word  you  said.  You  told  me  that  the  squire  had  changed  from 
a  horrid  old  monster  to  *  quite  a  dear.'  Now  what,"  looking 
keenly  at  her,  "  what  do  you  suppose  has  changed  him  so  ?" 

"I  cannot  think,"  answers  Vanessa:  but  even  whilst  she 
speaks,  having  an  honest  and  straightforward  nature,  the  warm 
blood  rushes  to  her  cheek,  half  at  her  own  consciousness,  half  at 
the  meaning  of  his  tone. 

Brandon,  incapable  of  the  cruelty  of  continuing  to  look  at  a 
blushing  \voman,  averts  his  eyes. 

"  There  is  a  caterpillar,  though,"  he  says,  espying  one  crawling 
on  the  arm  of  the  bench.  "  What  a  handsome  fellow!" 

"  Do  not  touch  it!"  exclaims  Vane'ssa,  shuddering.  "  I  loathe 
caterpillars.  Is  it  not  strange,"  she  adds,- "  that  being  a  country- 
girl  I  have  a  horror  of  insects  ?  I  do  not  mind  mice  or  frogs, 
but  an  insect  crawling  on  me  makes  all  my  blood  run  cold/' 

Her  blush  has  faded;  the  cause  of  it  is  forgotten  after  this 
momentary  distraction,  and  they  fall  to  talking  of  other  objects. 

Presently  Susan  is  seen  advancing  with  a  tray  of  peaches, 
grapes,  and  strawberries. 

"  Sir  Bertram  has  just  sent  you  these,  miss,  with  his  compli- 
ments," she  says.  "  1  thought  you  would  like  me  to  bring  them 
out  now." 

Vanessa  falls  into  raptures  over  the  peaches  and  strawber- 
ries. 

"  We  will  have  a  feast,"  she  exclaims  to  Brandon,  with  glis- 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND  CLOVED.  3t 

tening  eyes,  preparing  to  help  him  to  the  best  of  the  tray's  con- 
tents; but,  to  her  innrjense  chagrin,  he  excuses  himself.  Why 
does  he  ?  he  is  particularly  fond  of  fruit.  Somehow  he  feels 
that  Sir  Bertram's  fruit  would  set  his  teeth  on  edge— he  is  cer- 
tain that  the  old  man  is  trying  to  buy  Vanessa  as  old  men  buy 
love,  or  what  does  duty  for  it,  with  gii'ts. 

As  he  rides  thoughtful!}'  home  that  evening,  his  scruples  about 
declaring  his  love  to  Vanessa  become  fainter.  Surely  any  fate 
would  be  preferable  for  her  than  to  fall  into  the  clutches  of  that 
hard,  cruel  old  man,  whom  he  knows  so  well  by  reputation,  He 
can  scarcely  fancy  that  a  lovely,  warm-hearted  creature  could 
be  induced  to  marry  such  a  man,  but  pretty  women  are  like  but- 
terflies; and  titles,  jewels,  and  riches  are  lights  at  which  they 
are  very  much  given  to  flying.  To-morrow  he  has  promised  to 
stay  later  and  dine  at  the  Vicarage;  he  is  sorely  tempted  to 
promise  himself  that  in  the  twilight,  if  he  and  Vanessa  find 
themselves  together  alone,  he  will  tell  her  something  of  the  love 
for  her  of  which  his  heart  is  so  full.  Absence  has  made  her  im- 
pression upon  him  deeper,  and  when  he  sees  her  again,  he  feels 
that  she  is  yet  more  than  in  absence  he  had  dreamed  her. 

The  next  day  finds  him  once  more  sitting  beside  Vanessa 
under  the  big  tree.  The  warmth  of  his  heart  is  stealing  into  his 
words  and  looks.  Vanessa  is  radiant  with  happiness.  He  bends 
toward  her— there  is  undoubtedly  something  of  the  lover  in  his 
attitude,  when  Sir  Bertram  and  the  vicar  are  seen  coming  to- 
ward them.  Sir  Bertram  sustains  a  severe  shock  at  this  spec- 
tacle— it  takes  him  utterly  by  surprise — his  anger  is  kindled  in  a 
moment.  A  serpent  in  the  Eden  which  he  thought  his!  the  ears 
of  the  future  Lady.Orford  being  polluted  by  the  admiration  of  a 
strange  man  1  A  dull  rage  possesses  the  soul  of  the  autocrat. 

Brandon  and  Venessa  rise— the  girl  puts  out  her  hand,  which 
the  squire  takes,  without  looking  at  her  companion. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Sir  Bertram?''  says  Brandon,  quietly,  about  to 
offer  his  hand  naturally,  if  reluctantly,  to  his  acquaintance. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mister  Brandon  ?"  returns  the  squire,  in  freez- 
ing accents,  ignoring  the  half-extended  hand, 

John  Brandon  has  none  of  that  morbid  sensitiveness  which 
makes  some  men  rather  look  out  for  slights.  He  is,  besides,  on 
terms  of  intimacy  with  men  who  occupy  a  considerably  higher 
station  in  the  world  than  Sir  Bertram,  but  there  is  something  so 
strangely  rude  in  the  latter's  manner,  an -air  as  of  a  superior 
being  resenting  a  presumptuous  familarity,  that  the  warm  color 
rushes  to  Brandon's  cheek,  and  he  turns  away  and  addresses 
himself  to  the  vicar. 

Vanessa,  accustomed  10  the  squire's  manner  before  his  regen- 
eration, does  not  remark  anything  particular.  She  hastens  to 
offer  her  thanks  for  his  present  of  yesterday,  and,  meantime, 
her  father  and  Brandon  have  walked  a  little  way  apart. 

• '  You  know  Mr.  Brandon ,  do  you  not  ?"  Vanessa  says  naturally, 
to  the  squire.  "  He  tells  m<»  he  has  met  you." 

"  I  know  him  insomuch  that  he  is  my  wine-merchant,"  re- 
plies Sir  Bertram,  with  an  acc-en*  as  contemptuous  and  indif 


32  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

ferent  as  though  he  said,  "  he  is  my  butler/'  or  "  he  blacks  my 
boots." 

Vanessa  turns  pale — a  pang  goes  through  her  heart — she  feels 
as  though  she  had  been  made  the  victim  of  some  cruel  decep- 
tion. To  her  idea  a  wine-merchant  has  much  the  same  status  as 
a  grocer  or  a  linen-draper.  What  education  she  has  imbibed  on 
the  subject  of  social  relations  is  from  Edith  and  Mabel,  who 
always  speak  of  trade  with  an  irrepressible  widening  of  the 
nostrils  and  contraction  of  the  bridges  of  their  little  noses. 
Trade  is  low — people  connected  with  business  are  unknowable, 
unless  (there  is  a  rider  to  their  verdict) — unless  they  are  so 
enormously  rich  that  they  are  refined  and  purified  by  the  amount 
of  their  go!4« 

Sir  Bertram  sees,  with  extreme  satisfaction,  that  his  maneuver 
has  been  successful — he  has  lowered  Brandon  in  Vanessa's  eyes 
— there  is  quite  a  look  of  shame  and  trouble  in  her  face. 

"  I  came,"  he  says,  altering  his  voice  to  a  pleasant  and  friendly 
inflection,  "  to  beg  you  sfiad  your  father  to  dine  with  me  to-night. 
I  find,''  with  quite  a  gallant  air,  "  that  your  presence  at  my  table 
spoils  me  for  my  own  company." 

"Thank  you,"  replied" Vanessa,  "  but  Mr.  Brandon  is  dining 
with  us  to-night,  and  we  cannot  leave  him."  « 

Her  dream  of  the  squire  inviting  their  guest  to  the  Hall  has 
vanished  into  thin  air — she  is  not  sure  that  she  any  longer  de- 
sires such  a  consummation. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  says  Sir  Bertram,  as  though  he  never  for  an  in- 
stant entertained  the  faintest  idea  of  including  Brandon  in  his 
invitation. 

And  yet  he  had  sat  next  him  once  at  a  select  dinner  given  by 
Lord  W ,  and  voted  hini  afterward  a  very  pleasant  fellow. 

This,  however,  was  not  for  Vanessa  to  know — the  squire  in- 
tended her  to  receive  the  impression,  as  she  did,  that  Brando*, 
belonged  to  a  class  as  wide  apart  from  his  as  the  poles.  Pres- 
ently he  seated  himself  beside  her  on  the  rustic  bench,  and  re- 
mained a  considerable  time  talking  to  her.  He  was  gratified  to 
see  that  she  wore  the  locket  he  had  presented  to  her. 

"  I  hope/'  he  said,  "  that  when  our  friendship  becomes  better 
cemented,  you  will  let  me  bring  you  something  much  more 
suited,  not  to  adorn,  but  to  be  adorned  by  you."  . 

He  speaks  with  his  grand  air,  perfectly  courteous  and  friendly, 
entirely  devoid  of  any  lover-like  accent. 

Vanessa  is  flattered  and  not  repelled.  The  vicar  returns  after 
a  time,  but  not  Brandon.  He  is  inexpressibly  ruffled— he 
scarcely  ever  remembers  to  have  been  so  annoyed  by  a 
trifle.  It  is  not  until  Sir  Bertram  ha«  departed  that  "he  rejoins 
Vanessa.  A  strange  alteration  has  taken  place  in  her  manner. 
She  seems  shy,  embarrassed;  her  pretty,  confident,  familiar 
manner  toward  him  is  gone — she  scarcely  looks  at  him,  has  little 
to  say,  yet  seems  afraid  of  a  pause.  And  when  she  sees  her 
father  in  the  distance,  she  runs  to  him  and  brings  him  back  with 
her. 

What  in  the  name  of  fortune  can  Sir  Bertram  have  said  or  done 
to  hsr  ?  i  -  Le  thou&lt  which  *-%cks  John  Brandon's  brain  and 


JL    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  33 

makes  him  absent  and  distrait  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  Has 
he  proposed  to  her  ?  and,  great  Heaven!  is  it  possible  she  can  have 
accepted  him  ?  Brandon's  conscience  is  too  honest  and  clear 
even  for  the  thought  to  cross  him  that  the  squire  can  have  said 
anything  to  his  detraction.  He  had  assigned  the  correct  motive, 
jealousy,  to  the  latter's  rudeness  toward  himself,  but  Sir  Ber- 
tram must  indeed  exercise  a  strong  influence  over  Vanessa  if  the 
expression  of  his  displeasure  was  able  to  effect  such  an  instant 
and  complete  change  in  her  .mood  and  manner.  The  hour  of 
sunset  came;  then  twilight;  the  moon  rose  and  JuKet  was  there, 
as  lovely  as  ever — he  was  even  with  her  for  a  few  minutes,  but 
to-night  she  was  not  Juliet,  only  a  beautiful  ice-maiden,  and 
Brandon  could  find  no  words  with  which  to  thaw  her.  His  fire 
could  not  melt  her  coldness;  on  the  contrary,  her  coldness  extin- 
guished his  fire. 

He  was  going  back  to  London  to-morrow — a  chill  feeling  smote 
him  that  he  would  never  return — his  romance  had  been  brief, 
and  was  ended  now. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  looking  almost  sorrowfully  at  Vanessa's 
lovely  face. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  answered.     She  did  not  say: 

'*  When  are  you  coming  again  V  • 


CHAPTER  VI. 

VANESSA  stands  again  at  her  window  and  looks  out  at  the 
moonlit  night.  She  has  no  questions  to  ask  of  the  stars  to-night; 
no  hopes  for  the  future  kindle  her  eyes;  no  heavenly  visions 'of 
given  and  requited  love.-  A  sense  of  bitter  disappointment 
gnaws  her  heart.  She  had  dreamed  of  a  hero  and  found — a 
wine-merchant.  Never,  surely,  were  two  words  in  the  English 
language  so  hideously  married.  Wanted  a  Romeo.  Found  a 
wine  merchant.  She  still  writhes  under  Sir  Bertram's  con- 
temptuous words  and  accent.  Slle  does  not  know  that  no  well- 
bred  man^despises  another  because  of  his  occupation,  and  that 
sneers  at  Trade  are  reserved  for  parvenus  and  nouveaux  riches. 
Nor  does  she  for  an  instant  suspect  that  this  assumed  disdain  was 
partly  a  ruse  of  Sir  Bertram's,  partly  an  outcome  of  jealous 
anger.  Speaking  to  a  woman  in  society,  he  would  have  chosen 
any  weapon  rather  than  that;  but,  with  Vanessa,  he  was  toler- 
ably sure  of  producing  his  effect.  This  time  last  night  how  happy 
she  was!  how  proudly  her  castles  reared  their  crests  against  the 
sky!  what  happy  riot  of  hope  and  pleasure  ran  in  her  brain!  She 
half  loved  already— half  thought  herself  beloved  — a  future  brim- 
ful of  joy  and  pleasure  was  witMn  her  grasp.  Where  are  her  cas- 
tles now  V  Ruined,  crumbled,  lying  in  dust  and  disgrace.  She  is 
half  indignant  with  Brandon  for  his  presumption — how  dare  he 
counterfeit  the  gentleman  so  well!  how  dare  he  offer  to  make 
love  to  her!  Then  she  remembers  that,  after  all,  he  and  her 
father  were  at  college  together,  and  her  brain  becomes  wearied 
and  perplexed  by  a  host  of  contradictory  ideas. 

"Papa!"  she  "says  next  morning  at  breakfast.  A  nervona 
Ireincr  disconcerts  her;  blushes  are  ready  to  fly  through  her  fair 


34  -T  HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

skin,  but  the  vicar  is  the  most  absent  of  men,  and  scarcely  evei 
£<.-es  the  person  who-addresses  him.  "  Papa!  when  did  you  firsi 
know  Mr.  Brandon  ?" 

Her  father  makes  a  violent  effort,  and  pulls  his  mind  out  of 
the  rut  of  thought  in  which  it  is  crawling.  He  has  to  repeat  her 
words  before  he  quite  realizes  the  sense  of  them. 

"When  did  I   first   know  Brandon?    We  were  at  Eton  to- 
gether.    His  father's  place  in  Blankshire  was  near-  my  grand-' 
father's." 

'  Who  was  his  father?"  asks  Vanessa. 

The  vicar  passes  his  hand  for  a  moment  across  his  brow  be- 
fore replying. 

"He  was  C'olonel  Brandon— a  very  extravagant  man.  Ulti- 
mately, the  place  had  to  be  sold — he  and  John's  elder  brother 
cut  off  the  entail  between  them.  I  forget  what  became  of  Will- 
iam Brandon,  but  John  went  to  India  and  made  some  money 
there,  and  came  home,  and,  he  tells  me,  set  up  as  a  wine-mer- 
chant, and  is  doing  a  very  good  business." 

"Then  he  ivas  a  gentleman!"  exclaims  Vanessa,  with  some 
'  eagerness. 

Her  fatheftooks  across  at  her  with  a  surprised  air. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  my  dear  ?  He  was  and  is  a  gentleman,'* 
with  emphasis. 

"  Do  gentlemen  go  into  trade  ?"  and,  this  time  the  blood  runs 
riot  at  its  own  sweet  will  in  Vanessa's  cheeks. 

"  A  gentleman."  returns  her  father,  "  thinks  no  honest  way  of 
earning  an  honorable  living  beneath  him.  Why,  my  dear,  did 
you  suppose  that  there  were  only  two  sorts  of  gentlemen? 
Squires  like  Sir  Bertram  and  poor  parsons  like  myself  ?" 

"  No,"  says  Vanessa,  confused,  "but " 

"But  what?" 

The  vicar  for  once  concentrates  his  thoughts  on  the  person  he 
is  speaking  to.  and  looks  keenly  at  his  daughter. 

"  Sir  Bertram  spoke  of  him  in  a  slighting  sort  of  way  as  his 
wine-merchant,"  proceeds  Vanessa,  growing  extreme^  uncom- 
fortable. 

' '  Sir  Bertram  did !"  repeats  the  vicar,  with  unequivocal  aston- 
ishment. "  My  dear  child,  you  must  have  mistaken  his  mean- 
ing." 

I  do  not  think  so."'  says  Vanessa,  shaking  her  head. 

"  Well,  well,"  remarks  her  father,  as  if  the  point  was  not  worth 
arguing.  "At  all  events,  disabuse  your  mind  of  the  idea  that 
business  is  degrading  to  a  gentleman.  John  Brandon  is  as  true  a 
gentleman  as  ever  stepped,  and  the  associate  of  gentlemen.  Lord 

A .  who  was  at  Eton  with  usf  is  still  one  of  his  most  intimate 

friends." 

Susan  making  her  appearance  at  this  juncture,  the  current  of 
the  vicar's  thoughts  is  turned,  and  he  does  not  revert  to  the  sub- 
ject. 

Vanessa  wends  her  way  to  her  rose-bower,  a  third  pleased,  a  third 
feorry,  a  third  indignant.  The  latter  emotion  is  provoked  by  the 
jquire.  Why  did  he  put  such  mean  thoughts  into  her  head? 
5"ney  were  mean— she  would  have  called  them  snobbish  had  she 


1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED'  35 

been  conversant  with  the  word  and  its  application.  She  is 
pleased  because  her  taste  and  inclination  in  liking  Brandon  are 
vindicated— she  is  sorry  because  she  feels  that  she  has  behaved 
in  a  wav  that  must  have  been  both  incomprehensible  and  wound- 
ing to  "him.  Then  a  sudden,  burning  shame  overcomes  her. 
Wax  it  incomprehensible  to  him,  or  had  he  guessed  the  reason  of 
her  altered  manner?  If  he  had,  how  he  must  despise  her!  Now 
he  has  gone,  gone  perhaps  forever ;  aivi.  at  this  thought,  two 
tears  steal  into  Vanessa's  eyes.  Her  romance  had  come  to  her, 
and  she  had  pushed  it  away  with  her  own  hands— s lie  might 
never  have  another.  She  could  still  not  help  wishing  that  her 
possible  lover  had  been  a  gentleman  at  large:  his  occupation 
rather  tarnishes  the  gilt  of  her  gingerbread.  But  now  her  ginger- 
bread is  gone  altogether.  Sir  Bertram  finds  her  silent  and  distrait 
at  dinner ;  the  vivacity  which  he  considers  her  chief  charm  is 
fled — he  connects  the  loss  with  Brandon,  and  feels  bitter  and  dis- 
pleased, fie  does  not,  however,  betray  these  emotions  to  his  fair 
guest. 

"Your  friends,  Edith  and  Mabel,  are  coming  the  day  after 
to-inorrow,"  he  tells  her  when  dinner  is  over,  arid,  at  this  in- 
telligence, her  eyes  brighten  and  all  her  face  is  illumined  by 
pleasure. 

Sir  Bertram  has  had  many  conflicting  opinions  about  the  ex- 
pediency of  having  his  granddaughters  at  the  Hall.  He  by  no 
means  relishes  the  thought  of  being  addressed  as  "  Grandpapa" 
before  his  future  bride,  who  is  of  the  same  age  as  themselves— 
nor  does  he  like  the  idea  of  their  inquisitive  glances  and  surmises. 
But  on  the  other  hand,  they  have  both  come. out  this  season  and 
are  very  full  of  the  world's  gayeties  and  vanities,  and  their  eager 
description  of  its  pleasures  will  perhaps  excite  in  Vanessa's 
breast  a  desire  to  participate  in  them  herself.  If  he  could  only 
forbid  them,  under  awful  pains  and  penalties,  ever  to  speak  of 
young  men  or  lovers  in  her  presence. 

Sir  Bertram  has  reflected,  besides,  that  a  visit  from  his  grand- 
daughters will  supply  the  pretext  for  constant  intercourse  be- 
tween the  Hall  and  the  Vicarage,  and  will  show  him  more  of 
Vanessa's  ^natural  disposition  than  he  is  likely  to  see  when  he  is 
playing  host  to  her  alone  and  she  is  fulfilling  the  part  of  an  ami- 
able and  obliging  guest  for  his  sole  edification. 

Three  mornings  later,  Vanessa  receives  by  hand  the  following 
note : 

"DEAREST  NESSA, — Your  friends  arrived  last  night,  and  are 
dying  to  hug  you.  Come  up  as  soon  as  ever  you  can  after  you 
get  this.  The  old  Gorgon  is  quite  amiable,  and  we  have  a  sort 
of  an  idea  from  the  way  he  talked  about  you  last  night  that  he 
is  in  love  with  you.  This  will  be  nuts  for  you.  We  have  heaps 
to  tell  you,  and,  if  you  don't  come  soon,  our  hearts  will  burst 
from  the  impossibility  of  containing  all  the  news  that  now  op- 
presses them.  So  fly  to  us  just  as  you  are.  You  are  to  spend 
the  whole  day — the  O.  G.  suggested  it  himself. 

"  Your  loving        MABEL,." 

Vanessa,  who  has  lately  been  in  a  despOD<*\n~  \ugpd,  recovers 


86  1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED, 

her  cheerfulness  on  the  spot,  and  prepares  to  obey  the  summon* 
Half  an  hour  after  the  receipt  of  the  letter  she  enters  the  sitting- 
room  allotted  by  the  squire  to  his  granddaughters.  She  is  re- 
ceived by  these  young  ladies  with  every  demonstration  of  joy — 
they  smother  her  with  kisses — between  them  they  almost  tear 
her  to  pieces. 

Edith  is  eighteen,  not  quite  a  year  older  than  her  sister,  and  is 
unquestionably  the  prettier  of  the  two,  but  Mabel  is  full  of  arch- 
ness and  vivacity,  which  makes  her  mdre  attractive  in  the  eyes 
of  some  people.  Edith  is  disposed  to-be  romantic;  Mabel  finds  it 
almost  impossible  to  look  seriously  at  anything,  and  is  always 
brimming  over  with  fun  and  turning  every  one  into  ridicule. 
She  ali'ects  an  extravagant  style  of  speech,  and  revels  in  adjec- 
tives and  superlatives. 

"  My  adored  Nessa,"  she  cries,  showering  a  second  series  of 
embraces  upon  her  friend,  *  *'  how  too  delightful  it  is  to  see  you 
again!  And  now  lovely  you  have  grown!  No  wonder  you  have 
turned  the  old  Gorgon's  brain.  Tell  us,  my  angel,  is  it  true  that 
he  is  in  love  with  you,  as  we  suspect?" 

Vanessa  laughs  gayly. 

"  What  a  goose  you  are,  Mab!"  she  says. 

"The  madre,"  pursues  Mabel,  "  is  in  a  horrid  fright.  She 
thinks  the  old  gentleman  is  going  to  marry  you,  and  do  us  out 
of  his  money." 

'•  Mab!"  expostulates  her  sister,  with  a  side-frown. 

"  Nonsense!"  retorts  Mabel.    "  We  have  no  secrets  from  Nessa. 
And  as  if  she  would  look  at  the  old  horror!     Not  but  what  I 
think  I  should,  if  I  were  her.    Oh,  my  love,  if  you  knew,"  clasp- 
ing her  hands,  "  what  a  heavenly  p]ace  London  is,  and  the  de- 
s  of  a  season  there,  you  would  skip  to  the  altar  in  the 
twi:  .kling  of  an  eye  with  anybody  who  asked  you — that  is,  any- 
body who  had  money v    "1  would,"  chasser-ing  all  round  the 
room,  "like  a  shot,  because  you  can't  really  enjoy  life  without  a 
and." 

Vanessa  looks  deeply  interested.  She  thinks  Mabel  alludes  to 
the  joys  of  love  and  companionship. 

"  But,"  she  says,  "if  you  have  a  husband,  I  hardly  see  that 
you  would  care  so  much  about  London  or  the  season." 

Mabel  stops  in  front  of  her. 

"  Chere  ingenue"  utters  this  minx  of  seventeen,  "  you  misap- 
prehend your  friend.  Let  me  enumerate  to  you  the  advantages 
of  a  husband.  In  the  first  place,  he  enables  you  to  flirt  as  you 
could  not  possibly  flirt  without  him;  in  the  second,  he  makes 
you  ten  times  more  admired  than  if  you  were  unmarried;  in  the 
third,  he  pays  your  bills,  and,  let  us  hope,  looks  pleasant;  and  to 
wind  up  all,  once  you  are  married,  you  may  say  and  do  just 
whatever  you  like,  and  nobody  is  shocked." 

"Really,  Mab,"  interrupts  her  sister,  looking  displeased,  "  you 
are  too  much  f OJP  anything.  If  mamma  could  hear  you,  she  would 
Ibe  exceedingly  angry." 

"  I  dare  say,"  retorts  Mabel,  proceeding  with  a, pas  seul ;  "but 
she  is  not  likely  to  hear  me.  In  company  I  am  quite  a  well 
brought  up  little  girl  without  eyes  and  ears.  I  don't  see  any- 


*7    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  37 

thing  that  is  going  on  under  my  nose,  and  I  don't,  of  coarse,  be- 
ing very  innocent,  understand  the  things  that  grown-up  people 
talk  about.  However,  Miss  Prim,  you  know  what  I  say  is  true; 
and  pray  did  not  mamma  s£y  herself  that  times  were  indeed 
changed  since  she  was  young?  for  then  the  girls  danced  and 
flirted  and  amused  themselves,  and  the  married  women  sat 
and  looked  on." 

"  Edie,"  asks  Vanessa,  turning  to  the  elder  sister,  "  how- much 
of  what  tliis  madcap  says  is  true  ?  Married  women  don't  really 
dance  and— flirt,  4o  they  ?" 

"  Unfortunately,  they  do,"  answers  Edith,  gravely.  "  It  is  an 
awful  shame,  but  girls  are  quite  neglected  nowadays — in  com- 
parison, I  mean." 

"I  don't  mind  a  bit,"  chimes  in  Miss  Mabel,  "whether  the 
girls  or  the  married  women  flirt,  as  long  as  I  belong  to  the  set 
who  have  the  best  time.  Just  now  it  is  the  thing  to  be  married, 
so  married  I  mean  to  be.  Only  think,  my  angel,  that  stupid 
Edith  might  have  been  rolling,  rolling  in  money  now  but  for  her 
silly,  idiotic,  romantic  nonsense.  There's  a  man  with  thousands, 
any  quantity  of  thousands,  a  year  who  would  have  proposed  to 
her  if  she  had  given  him  the  least  encouragement;  instead  of 
which  she  goes  and  falls  in  love  with  a  detrimental,  which,  being 
interpreted,  is  a  penniless  young  man  with  a  good-looking  face 
and  no  expectations." 

Vanessa  glances  sympathetically  at  the  elder  sister,  who  blushes 
faintly. 

"  Don't  listen,  Nessa  dear,  to  the  nonsense  this  child  talks," 
she  says;  "  and  now,  Mab,  pray  hold  your  tongue  for  five  min- 
utes, if  you  can,  and  let  somebody  else  get  in  a  word  edge- 
ways." 

"  No,  I  sha'n't,"  cries  Mabel.  "  I  am  going  to  tell  Nessa  about 
nay  offer.  Fancy,  my  sweet  love,  only  one  offer  all  the  season, 
and  I  expected  dozens.  I  always  tHought  when  one  came  out, 
if  one  was  at  all  decent  looking,"  surveying  herself  complacently 
in  a  mirror, ' '  that  almost  every  other  man  you  met  went  on  his 
knees  and  said,  '  Will  you  be  mine  ?'  more  for  the  sake  of  being 
civil  than  anything  else,  and  not  really  expecting  to  be  taken  at 
his  word,  because,  of  course,  all  one  wants  is  the  pleasure  of  re- 
fusing him.  Dearest  Nessa!  only  one  wretched,  measly  little 
offer  all  the  season — from  a  youth  in  the  Foreign  Office,  with 
about  enough  money  to  keep  him  in  gardenias  and  cigarettes.  He 
was  awfully  in  love  with  me,  and  after  I  had  spurned  him,  I 
looked  every  day  in  the  Morning  Post,  expecting  to  see  that  he 
had  committed  suicide,  but  he  didn't.  May  Harley  met  him  out 
at  dinner  the  next  night,  and  told  me  he  ate  a«id  drank  enor- 
mously. I  wouldn't  have  minded  the  drinking,  because  that 
would  have  looked  like  despair,  but  no  decent-minded  man  eats 
after  a  disappointment.  It's  my  belief  that  the  young  men  of 
the  day  are  a  very  deteriorated  race." 

Vanessa  laughs. 

"My  dear  child,"  she  says,  "  as  if  any  man  could  possibly 
think  seriously  of  marrying  such  a  madcap  as  you." 

"  I'm  just  the  sort  some  men  like,"  return^  Mabel,  gravely, 


88  r-ffAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

"  I  dare  say  it  will  be  a  man  about  the  age  of  grandpapa,  though 
not  such  an  old  horror,  of  course,  but  some  good-tempered  and 
pleasant  old  person  who  would  let  me  do  just  as  I  like.  By  the 
way.  Nessa,  I  am  dying  to  see  grandpapa  spoon  you — it  will 
throw  a  new  light  upon  his  character.  Though,  do  you  know," 
mysteriously,  with  a  glance  over  her  shoulder  to  make  sure  Sir 
Bertram  is  not  within  earshot.  "  I  heard  Hawkins  say  to  Marter 
that  he  wasn't  quite  what  people  down  here  fancied  him,  amd 
that  he  had  actresses  and  all  sorts  of  people  at  his  place  on  th« 
river.  You  know.  Edie.  he  never  would  have  us  there  on  a  Sum- 
day,  though  mamma  wanted  to  go  down  several  times." 

"  I  wish  to  goodness,  Mab,''  interrupts  her  sister,  impatiently, 
"  that  you  would  go  into  the  garden  and  take  off  some  of  your 
Exuberant  vitality,  and  let  me  and  Vanessa  have  a  little  peace." 

Mab  stands  pirouetting  in  the  center  of  the  floor.  Suddenly 
bringing  her  gyrations  to  a  close,  she  says: 

44  Weil.  I  don't  mind  leaving  you  together  for  an  hour  on  one 
condition — that  is.  that  I  shall  have  Nessa  all  to  myself  for  an 
hour  this  afternoon.*' 

Vanessa  is  accustomed  to  being  bartered  about  between  the 
pair,  each  liking  to  tell  her  own  stories  and  affairs  without  com- 
ment, parentheses,  or  contradictions  from  the  other. 

So,  after  once  more  flinging  her  arms  round  Vanessa's  neck, 
and  telling  her  she  is  quite  the.  loveliest  creature  and  the  greatest 
angel  in  the  world.  Mabel  takes  herself  off  to  beguile  her  hour  of 
waiting. 

Edith  is  two  months  younger  than  Vanessa.  Each  of  the 
sisters  likes  to  think  she  is  the  favorite  of  the  vicar's  daughter, 
but,  truth  to  tell.  Vanessa  would  be  extremely  puzzled  to  decide 
which  she  is  fonder  of.  Mabel,  with  her  great  fund  of  spirits 
arid  gayety,  amuses  her,  but  Edith  is  more  sympathetic.  And 
at  this  moment,  when  she  is  disposed  to  be  somewhat  sad  and 
sentimental,  the  society  of  Edith  is  more  congenial  to  her. 

Scarcely  has  Mabel  left  them  when  Vanessa  takes  her  place 
on  the  couch  beside  Edith,  and  says,  in  a  pretty,  caressing 
whisper: 

'•  Tell  me,  darling,  is  it  true  what  Mab  says?  Do  you  care  for 
some  one  ?'' 

"  Yes,*'  answers  Edith,  leaning  her  cheek  against  her  friend's 
shoulder,  "it  is  quite  true.  Oh,  Nessa!''  in  a  mournful  voice, 
'.*  it  is  dreadful  to  be  in  love  when  things  won't  go  right." 

44  Why  shouldn't  they  go  right?'*  asks  Vanessa.  "  If  you  love 
him,  and  he  loves  you,  what  can  anything  else  matter?" 

''  It  wouldn't  matter  here,"  answers  Edith,  "  if  we  lived  down 
in  the  country  and  never  went  away  from  it,  but  you  don't 
know,  darling  Nessa,  how  different  it  is  in  the  world.  In  so- 
ciety, if  a  girl  marries  a  poor  man,  her  people  hate  it,  and  are 
furious.  She  has  to  live  in  a  wretched,  poky  way,  quite  differ- 
ent from  what  she  is  accustomed  to:  and  then,  the  worst  of  it 
is?  the  man  gets  to  hate  it,  and  to  be  discontented,  and  to  wish  he 
hadn't  married  her.  Not  that  I  think  Algy  ever  v;  juld,  but  you 
can't  tell.  There's  Lady  Blanche  Hope.  Last  year  every  on* 
was  talking  about  her  romantic  marriage.  Thev  were  the"  mo* 


LIVED    AND    LOVlH®.  39 

devoted  couple  ever  seen,  and  I  met  her  this  season,  and  she 
talked  to  me  so  awfully  kindly  and  nicely:  I  suppose  she  saw 
"that  Algy  and  I  were  fond  of  each  other.  ^She  said,  '  Don't,  my 
dear,  marry  a  poor  man.  If  you  are  obliged  to  live  in  London 
and  go  into  society,  it  is  utterly  fatal.  I  don't  care  how  much 
he  loves  you  to  begin  with.  The  man  feels  being  poor  .worse 
than  the  woman,  and  the  moment  he  feels  it,  he  makes  you  suf- 
fer ten  times  over  for  every  annoyance  or  restraint  that  is  put 
upon  him." "' 

"  But,'"  says  Vanessa,  "  is  he  so  very  poor,  and  must  he  live  in 
London  :" 

"  He  is  a  younger  son,  and  he  is  in  the  Guards,"  answers 
Edith,  shaking  her  head.  "  I  will  show  you  his  picture." 
And,  going  to  her  desk,  she  produces  two  portraits  in  different 
attitudes  of  a  very  good-looking  young  man,  in  the  undress  uni- 
form of  the  Guards. 

"  Oh!"  utters  Vanessa,  drawing  a  long  breath.  Then,  looking 
tip  curiously  at  her  friend,  she  asks  with  unconscious  naivete, 
44  Are  there  many  men  like  that  in  London  V" 

Edith  smiles  with  gratified  vanity. 

"  Not  many  .so  handsome  as  Algy,"  she  says.  4<  But'' — impar- 
tially— "there  are  great  numbers  of  good-looking  men.  Oh, 
Nessa!"  she  adds,  with  enthusiasm,  "  ho\v  I  should  like  you  to 
go  to  London,  ami  what  a  success  you  would  have.  Men  would 
rave  about  you."  Then,  returning  to  the  subject  of  Algy,  she 
continues,  dolefully : 

44  It  is  too  dreadful  to  be  in  love.  When  you  are  apart,  you 
never  know  a  happy  moment.  Then  mamma  worries  so  about 
the  other  man — the  man  with  money  Mab  was  talking  about. 
3VIy  people  don't  know  it,  but  he  really  proposed  to  me." 

"  Did  he  ';"  exrhmus  Vanessa,  with  sparkling  eyes.  "  Tell  me 
about  him.  1  suppose,  though,  he  is  old  and  ugly." 

"  No.  he  isn't.  He  is  about  thirty,  and  really  not  bad -looking, 
and  he  is  rich,  quite  rich.  Before  I  fell  in  love  with  Algy  I  had 


most  tragic  solemnity. 

•"  1  swear,"  responds  Vanessa,  with  all  a  girl's  eagerness  to 
hear  a  secret. 

4 'One  day  we  were  alone  together  and  he  suddenly  caught 
hold  of  me  and  kissed  me.  It  was  the  most  horrid  sensation," 
shuddering,  "  I  ever  experienced.  Do  you  know  I  really  think! 
would  rather  have  had  a  tooth  out." 

Both  these  sensations  being  unknown  to  Vanessa,  site  only  re- 
sponds by  a  look  of  sympathy. 

4<  But,"  she  observes,  after  a  moment's  pause,  <4 1  suppose  you 
would  not  have  felt  like  that  if  it  had  been  Algy?" 

Edith  laughs,  and  buries  her  face  in  her  friend's  neck. 

4*  Not  at  all,"  she  answers.     "  Quite  the  contrary." 

14  Edie,"  says  Vanessa,  presently,  trying  to  control  her  voice, 
*  tiid  you  ever  meet  any  one  called  Brandon  in  London  7* 


40  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND 

"Brandon?"  repeats  Edith.  "Brandon?  Rather  a  nice- 
looking,  darkish  man;  not  very  young?'' 

"  Yes." 

At  this  moment  the  door  is  flung  open,  and  Mab  returns  in  a 
state  of  wild  excitement. 

"  It  is  only  half  an  hour,"  exclaims  Edith;  "  it  isn't  fair." 

"  Ah,  but  wait  till  you  hear  what  I  have  got  to  tell  you!"  cries 
Mab.  Then*  flying  to  Vanessa  and  nearly  throttling  her,  she 
says: 

"  My  beloved  grandmother!  let  me  salute  your  ladysnip!" 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  THERE  is  no  doubt,"  proceeds  Mab,  seating  herself  at 
Vanessa*  s  feet,  and  speaking  more  calmly, — "there  is  no  doubt 
that  you  are  destined  to  be  Lady  Oxford.  Nothing  else  could 
account  for  the  extraordinary  fact  I  am  about  to  reveal  to  you. 
Five  minutes  ago  I  happened  to  go  into  the  stables,  when  what 
shoulcf  I  see  in  the  middle  of  the  yard  but  the  coach  getting 
furbished  and  burnished  up. 

"  '  What  are  you  doing  with  the  coach  T  I  said  to  Simpson. 

"  '  Sir  Bertram's  ordered  it  for  four  o'clock  this  afternoon,' 
•said  Simpson: 

"I  opened  my  mouth  so  wide  at  this  that  a  butterfly  flew  into 
it  and  choked  me.  You  know  grandpapa  hasn't  had  a  team  out 
for  four  years.  I  went  off  down  the  garden  in  a  state  of  stupe- 
faction, and  met  the  old  Gorgon  coming  up  to  the  house.  I  was 
obliged  to  ask  him  (I  couldn't  help  it)  whether  he  was  going  to 
take  us  out,  and  he  smiled  benevolently,  like  a  death's-head  try- 
ing to  do  the  amiable,  and  said: 

1  *  I  thought  you  you^g  ladies  would  like  to  drive  over  to  the 
White  House  farm,  and  perhaps  have  tea  there.' 

"*At  that,  my  loves,  quite  forgetting  who  I  was  interviewing, 
I  threw  up  my  hat  and  said,  *  Hooray!'  and  instead  of  turning 
me  to  stone  by  one  glare,  he  grinned  more  than  ever  and  walked 
off." 

Vanessa  and  Edith  are  almost  as  much  excited  by  this  ex- 
traordinary intelligence  as  Mab. 

"  It  must  be  you!"  says  Edith,  looking  with  wonder  and  ad- 
miration at  her  friend.  "  Tell  us,  Nessa,  how  did  you  and  grand- 
papa come  to  be  so  friendly  ?" 

Vanessa  is  on  the  point  of  relating  the  episode  of  the  borrowed 
dinner,  but  the  sense  of  shame  which  always  overcomes  her  at 
the  remembrance  of  it  stops  her, 

"  I  met  him  the  first  evening  of  his  return,  she  says,  "  and  he 
was  very  kind  and  polite,  and  sent  us  down  some  fruit  in  the 
evening,  and  asked  us  to  dinner  next  day." 

"My  only  fear  is,"  observes  Mabel,  with  great  solemnity, 
scanning  her  friend's  face,  "  that,  not  knowh^r  what  other  men 
are  like,  you  might  be  induced  to  become  hisjflride;  and  then — 
oh!  my  dear,  when  you  see  real  men,  you  will  drown  yourself 
in  despair«:5 


(    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  41 

c*  I  have  seen  what  other  men  are  like,"  returns  Vanessa,  with 
a  shade  of  triumph — "  we  have  had  one  at  the  Vicarage." 

"  No!"  exclaims  Mab.     "  Not  really!" 

"  Yes—an  old  college  friend  of  papa's." 

"  Oh!"  utters  Mab,  contemptuously.  "  I  don't  call  that  any 
more  a  man  than  grandpapa." 

4 '  Was  it  the  Mr.  Brandon  you  were  asking  me  about  ?"  inter* 
poses  Edith. 

Vanessa  nods. 

>  "  Do  you  remember,  Mab,"  continues  Edith,  "rather  a  nice 
looking  man  who  sat  between  us  one  night  at  the  Greys  V" 

"Yes,"  responds  Mab.  "But,"  she  adds,  a  trifle  supercil* 
iously,  "  I  don't  think  he  was  anybody  very  much." 

Vanessa  flushes  scarlet  in  a  moment. 

""  He  is  a  gentleman,"  she  says,  warmly. 

"  Oh,  of  course  he  is  a  gentleman!"  responds  Miss  Mab,  "  or 
we  should  not  have  been  likely  to  meet  him.  T  only  mean  that 
he  is  not  to  be  considered  as  a,partiSJ 

' '  Why  not  ?"  exclaims  Vanessa,  irritated  to  find  her  f ormef 
sentiments  echoed  by  her  friend. 

"  He  is  in  business,"  replies  Mab,  coolly;  "  and  unless  a  man 
makes  at  least  twenty  thousand  a  year  by  business,  he  cannot 
be  recognized  in  our  set  as  marriageable.  One  may  be  civil  to 
him,  but " 

"  He  was  at  Eton  and  Oxford  with  papa,"  interrupts  Vanessa, 
still  more  warmly — "  he  is  the  son  of  a  country  gentleman,  he  is 

a  great  friend  of  Lord  A ,  and  papa  says  that  a  gentleman  is 

never  above  making  his  living  in  an  honorable  manner." 

Vanessa  is  not  only  championing  her  friend's  position  against 
Mabel,  but  also  against  her  own  doubt  of  him,  of  which  in  the 
last  few  days  she  has  become  very  much  ashamed. 

"  Oho!"  cries  mischievous  Mab.  '  "So  the  old  G.  has  a  rival, 
has  he  ?" 

"  Do  not  tease  her.  How  disagreeable  you  are,  Mab!"  ex- 
claims Edith,  to  whom  it  occurs  that  Mr.  Brandon,  if  not  quite 
a  suitable  alliance  for  herself  or  her  sister,  might  make  an  ex- 
cellent husband  for  the  vicar's  daughter. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  tease  you,  darling,"  says  Mab,  rushing  at 
Vanessa  and  embracing  her.  "  I  wouldn't  for  the  world.  He  is 
quite  nice,  and  I  like,  him  very  much,  and  I  am  sure  I  would  far, 
far  rather  have  him  than  grandpapa.  And  he  doesn't  keep  a 
shop!  Not  that  that  matters.  Why,  Lady  Maria  Hanson  was 
delighted  to  marry  her  daughter  the  other  day  to  young  Wool- 
shank,  whose  father  is  a  linen  draper!" 

"  But,"  protests  Vanessa,  "  you  seem  as  if  you  could  think  of 
nothing  but  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage!" 

"  Because,  my  sweet  love,"  returns  Mab,  "  that  is  the  only  ob- 
ject of  a  respectable  woman's  existence  after  she  has  once  been 
presented.  It's  a  career ;  it's  like  chosing  a  profession  or  going 
into  Parliament.  Look  at  the  glorious  possibilities  in  front  of  a 
girl.  Why,"  commencing  a  fresh  war-dance,  for  she  can  never 
be  quiet  five  minutes  together,  "  I  might  be  a  countess  by  this 
time  next  ^ear  if  I  happened  to  take  the  fancy  of^an^earl.  It '3 


42  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED, 

all  done  in  a  minute.  lie  meets  you  at  a  ball  or  a  garden-party, 
or  in  the  Row;  he  falls  in  love  with  }'ou;  lie  says,  k  I  cannot  live 
without 'this  divine  creature — she  in  tost  be  mine."  You  rather 
hesitnte,  ami  give  yourself  airs  not  to  let  him  see  that  you  are 
dying  to  jump  down  his  throat:  he  IK -'-oni'-.s  madder,  you  consent 
at  last,  your  engagement  is  announced  in  the  society  papers,  two 
or  three  dowagers  die  of  apoplexy  from  rage,  their  daughters 
turn  green  with  envy,  your  mamma  pretends  not  to  be  at  all  ex- 
alted, but  rather  gives  people  to  understand  that  you  really 
ought  to  have  done  better;  you  behave  with  condescending  affa- 
bility to  your  friends,  who  cover  you  with  embraces  and  say 
every  sort  of  horror  of  you  behind  your  back;  you  get  loads  of 
wedding-presents  because  you  don't  want  'em,  and  there  you 
are!" 

There  is  no  doubt  that,  in  spite  of  her  tender  years.  Miss  Mab 
has  developed  a  good  deal  of  the  cynicism  which  she  has  inher- 
ited from  her  maternal  grandfather. 

"  Mab!"  utters  Vanessa^  aghast,  "  where  did  you  learn  to  talk 
in  this  dreadful,  heartless  manner  V" 

"In  society,  my  love,"  returns  Mab,  laughing.  '•  Everybody 
there  hates  everybody  else;  every  one  is  jealous  of  every  one; 
every  one  wants  to  drag  every  one  else  down;  the  only  happy 
people  are  those  who  can  stand  on  the  top  and  kick  the  others 
as  they  are  coming  up." 

'•  It  sounds  very  clever,"  interrupts  Edith,  with  some  contempt; 
"  but.  my  dear,"  to  Vanessa,  "it  is  only  grandpapa  at  second- 
hand. Grandpapa  and  water.  I  have  heard  him  say  these 
things  dozens  of  times.  Any  monkey  can  imitate." 

"  Monkeys  are  amusing,  at  all  events,"  retorts  Mab,  "  which 
is  more  than  some  people  are." 

The  gong  sounds  at  this  moment,  and  Mab,  forgetting  her  mo- 
mentary wrath,  cries : 

"  Now,  my  darling  love,  now  for  a  real  treat — now  to  see  the 
old  G.  in  his  new  part  as  the  lovier." 

Luncheon  is  rather  an  embarrassing  ordeal  for  Vanessa,  who 
is  quite  conscious  that  three  watchful  pair  of  eyes  are  upon  her, 
Mrs.  Vaughan's  suspiciously  and  distrustfully;  Mab's  full  of  ma- 
licious fun;  Edith's  inquiringly.  To-day  she  has  no  control  of 
her  swift  blood— a  word  from  the  squire  sends  it  rushing  through 
her  cheeks;  every  nerve  quivers  with  painful  consciousness. 
Well  pleased  he  notes  this,  and  gloats  over  it,  for  people  past 
feeling  themselves  are  ofttimes  wont  to  enjoy  the  evidences  of 
extreme  sensibility  in  others.  His  daughter's  annoyance,  in 
spite  of  her  assumed  composure,  is  evident  to  him,  and  give* 
zest  to  his  enjoyment.  Certainly  he  will  make  this  beautiful 
young  girl  Lady  Orford,  and  his  daughter  will  have  to  pay  horn 
age  to  her  ladyship,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  her. 

Efe  does  not  intend  to  invite  Mrs.  Vaughaii  to  join  their  expe- 
dition this  afternoon.  Vanessa  is  to  have  the  seat  of  honor. 

And  when  the  time  arrives  and  the  young  lady  is  mounted  be- 
side the  squire,  she  feels  a  very  delightful  sense  of  exhilaration 
and  importance.  She  has  never  looked  down  upon  life  from 
such  a  gjtfdy  height  before — as  the  people  run  out_of  their  cot* 


TTLiFE?    LIVED    AND    LO'ffru  48 

tag'o.s  to  gaze  on  the  grand  spectacle,  she  feels  herself  quite  a 
great  lady.  She  talks  with  animation  to  her  companion,  and  Is 
not  a  whit  afraid  of  the  criticism  of  his  granddaughters  behind. 
The  swift  passage  through  the  air,  the  sunshine,  the  clatter  of 
the  horses'  hoofs— everything  combines  to  make  her  feel  happy 
and  blithe  of  heart. 

Mab  nudges  her  sister  and  gives  her  a  significant  look  from 
time  to  time — the  pair  begin  to  feel  ever  so  slight  a  falling  off 
of  their  affection  for  the  vicar's  daughter,  who  is  being  put  so 
ostentatiously  before  them.  Until  to-day  she  has  always  been 
the  humble  friend:xnow  their  grandfather  seems  bent  on  turn- 
ing her  head.  But  when,  after  dinner,  they  are  all  three  walk- 
ing with  entwined  arms  in  the  garden,  the  momentary  grudge 
is  forgotten,  although  the  topic  is  still  under  discussion. 

"I  am  sure  he  means  something,"  said  Edith.  "  But,  Nessa, 
you  never  could!" 

"I  nesTer  saw  the  old  G.  so  human  before!"  chimes  in  Mab. 
44  But  all  the  same,  Nessa,  if  I  thought  you  could  be  so  disgust- 
ing as  to  entertain  any  idea  of  the  old  horror,  I  could  never 
love  you  more." 

To  .which  Vanessa  replies  by  a  peal  of  silvery  laughter. 

44  You  must  not  encourage  him  too  much  if  you  don't  mean 
anything."  says  Edith,  gently. 

"  Encourage  him!"  echoes  Vanessa.  "  Why,  Edie,  you  do  not 
seriously  suppose  that  Sir  Bertram  could  think  I  would  marry 
him,  even  if  he  condescended  to  ask  me  V" 

"  I  hope  I  sha'n't  be  here  when  he  proposes,  if  you  refuse  him," 
utters  Mab.  That  is,  if  you  do.  But,"  suspiciously,  "  I  am  not 
so  sure  that  you  will.  You  look  extremely  delighted  this  after- 
noon." 

44  Of  course  I  was  delighted,"  cried  Vanessa.  "Why,  I  had 
never  been  on  a  coach  before,  and  it  was  the  most  heavenly  sen- 
sation I  ever  felt.  Did  you  enjoy  it  too?" 

44  I  might  have  done  if  I  had  had  a  nice  young  man  next  me," 
answers  Mab.  4t  It  was  not  particularly  exciting  for  Edie  and 
rue  doing  double  gooseberry." 

4 'It  would  have  been  much  nicer  if  Mrs.  Vaughan  had  gone, 
and  we  three  had  .sat  behind  together,"  returns  Vanessa. 

"  I'll,  suggest  it  to  him  next  time."  laughs  Mab. 

44  Yes,  1  should  think  vou  would  dare,"  observes  Edith,  scorn- 
fully. 

Mrs.  Vaughan,  meantime,  is  feeling  considerable  uneasiness 
about  her  father's  intentions.  ,  She  has  never  seen  him  pay  such 
marked  .attention  to  a  young  girl  before.  Nothing  could  be 
more  displeasing  or  unsatisfactory  to  her  than  that  he  should 
marry,  for,  although  the  estate  is  entailed,  Sir  Bertram  has  a 
considerable  amount  of  personal  property  at  his  disposal,  and 
she  has  always  looked  forward  to  inheriting  this.  She  is  suffi- 
ciently well  off,  but  is  any  one,  however  rich, 'indifferent  to  the 
thought  of  acquiring  more?  In  any  case  it  will  be  injurious  to 
her  daughters'  position  as  marriageable  girls  should  their  grand- 
father m;irrv  P.  young  wife.  When  Vanessa  has  taken  her  leave 


44  I    HAVE    LIVED    ANT>    LOVED 

Mrs.  Vaughan  minutely  cross-examines  Edith  and  *Mabel  about 
the  events  of  the  afternoon. 

"  How  did  the  girl  behave?"  she  asks.  ''  I  suppose  she  was 
delighted  with  your  grandfather's  attentions." 

If  the  sisters  had  Irad  a  momentary  doubt  of  Vanessa  in  their 
own  minds,  they  will  not  acknowledge  it  to  their  mother,  but 
champion  her  stoutly. 

"  She  was  pleased  to  drive  on  the  coach,"  says  Edith.  "  But, 
mamma  dear,  is  it  likely  that  any  girl  could  possibly  dream  of 
marrying  grandpapa  ?" 

"  Nothing  more  likely,"  returns  Mrs.  Vaughan.  "  A  girl  with 
no  prospects,  and  nothing  on  earth  to  look  forward  to!" 

''But  you  forget,  mamma,"  interposes  Miss  Mabel,  dryly, 
"that  she  hasn't  been  brought  up  like  we  have." 

"  You  were  not  brought  up  to  be  impertinent,"  remarks  her 
mother,  "  and  yet  you  are  so." 

At  this  Mab  reddens,  and  retires  huffily  from  the  discussion. 

"  There  is  no  doubt/'  proceeds  Mrs.  Vaughan,  addressing  her 
elder  daughter,  "that  she  is  very  good-looking.  Men,  I  suppose, 
some  men,  at  least,  would  admire  her,  though  she  is  on  a  large 
scale,  and  will  get  coarse  in  time." 

"  Oh,  mamma!  I  think  she  is  quite  lovely,"  exclaims  Edith. 
"  She  makes  nie  feel  so  small  and  insignificant." 

"If, "says  Mrs.  Vaughan,  "  I  thought  Sir  Bertram  had  any 
serious  thoughts  about  her,  I  would  invite  her  to  stay  with  us  in 
town,  and  give  her  the  opportunity  of  seeing  other  men." 

* '  I  rather  fancy  she  has  seen  some  one  wtyiom  sne  ver^ 
much  prefers  to  grandpapa,"  dbser vet  Edith,  "  a  Mr.  Brandon 
an  old  friend  of  her  father's,  only  that  he  is  not  old.  We  met 
him  once  at  the  Greys'." 

"  Brandon!"  repeats  Mrs.  Vaughan,  thoughtfully.    "  Brandon!" 

"  I  think  he  is  a  wine-merchant,  but  he  is  quite  a  gentleman.*' 

"Oh!"  And  her  mother  looks  interested.  "  But  has  he  any 
idea  of  her,  do  you  know  ?" 

"  I  am  not  sure.     She  has  only  seen  him  two  or  three  times." 

"  Try  to  find  out,"  says  Mrs.  Vaughan,  and  then  she  rises,  and 
leaves  the  room. 

But  the  days  pass,  and  Vanessa  hears  nothing  of  John  Bran- 
don, and  the  squire's  attentions  increase,  and  Mrs.  Vaughan  be- 
comes seriously  uneasy.  Though  not  a  particularly  meek- 
spirited  or  nervous  woman,  she  is  afraid  of  her  father,  as  most 
people  are.  But  there  is  so  much  at  state  that  she  plucks  up 
her  courage,  and  resolves  to  broach  the  subject  of  Vanessa  to 
him.  One  evening,  as  they  are  sitting  in  the  drawing-room,  the 
girls  having  strolled  into  the  garden,  she  commences  her  attack. 
Her  heart  flutters;  it  is  some  moments  before  she  can  command 
her  voice  sufficiently  to  speak  with  even  tolerable  unconcern. 

"  Vanessa  is  growing  a  handsome  girl,"  sjie  remarks  at  last. 

The  squire  braces  himself  up  for  action,  knowing  perfectly 
well  what  is  coming. 

"  Yes,"  he  replies,  in  that  peculiar  dry  voice  wliioli  people 
who  knew  him  well  dread. 


f  HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVK^  %      45 

"  A  little  too  tall,  perhaps,  but  that  does  not  matter  so  much 
now."  * 

"Ah!" 

"  You  seem  to  admire  her  very  much"— trying  to  speak  play- 
fully. 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Vaughan  grows  embarrassed.  If  one's  interlocutor  will 
not  take  his  share  in  the '  conversation,  the  position  becomes 
awkward. 

"  You  must  not  turn  her  head,"  smiling  uneasily. 

"How?" 

1 '  By  encouraging  false  hopes  in  her. " 

' '  What  do  you  call  false  hopes  ?"  inquires  Sir  Bertram,  in  his 
dryest,  most  disagreeable  tone. 

'{I  mean  she  might  think  you  had  serious  intentions,"  returns 
"Mrs.  Vaughan,  reddening  uneasily. 

"And  suppose  I  have?"  The  squire  transfixes  his  daughter 
with  his  keen  glance.  j 

Mrs.  Vaughan  regrets  too  late  her  rashness  in  making  the 
attack,  but  she  cannot  draw  back  now. 

"  It  would  be  running  a  great  risk,  would  it  not?"  she  hazards, 
nervously. 

"  Risk  of  what?'*  in  his  most  biting  tone. 

"  Such  a  disparity  m  years,  "murmurs  Mrs.  Vaughan  w 

"A  man  who  lias  ragjc  and  wealth  to  give  to  a  penniless  girl 
has  no  disparities,"  says  the  squire,  grimly. 

"  A  young  and  handsome  wife  might  cause  you  a  good  deal  of 
uneasiness." 

"  I  have  no  anxiety  on  that  score,"  returns  Sir  Bertram,  with 
a  disagreeable  smile.  "  When  I  marry,  I  shall  take  excellent 
care  of  my  wife." 

Mrs.  Vaughan  feels  herself  worsted,  and  becqmes  rather  spite- 
ful. 

"  You  must  keep  Mr.  Brandon  out  of  the  way,"  she  says,  try- 
ing to  smile  with  indifferent  success.  But  she  has  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  that  this  shaft  has  gone  home.* 

"Brandon!" 

For  once  Sir  Bertram's  curiosity  gets  the  better  of  his  dis 
cretion.  He  has  been  painfully  exercised  in  his  mind  more  than 
once  on  the  subject  of  Brandon — he  could  never  forget  the  fel- 
low^ lover-like  attitude,  nor  the  expression  of  Vanessa's  face, 
when  he  came  upon  them  in  the  Vicarage  garden  that  day. 

"  She  seems  to  have  a  great  penchant  for  him,  from  all  I  hear," 
proceeds  Mrs.  Vaughan,  with  secret  triumph;  "  but  I  dare  say 
she  would  contrive  to  forget  him  if  you  honored  her  by  propos- 
ing to  make  her  Lady  Orford." 

"  Very  probably,  I  should  think,"  says  the  squire,  icily,  deter- 
mined to  wreak  his  revenge  on  his  daughter.  "  At  all  events,  if 
she  is  disposed  to  sell  herself,  I  am  disposed  to  make  it  well 
•worth  her  while.  By  the  way,  what  day  will  your  fortnight 
here  be  up?  Thursday? — ah,  yes.  You  will  go  by  the  usual 
fcrainafrom  L ,  I  suppose?" 

So,  by  ?i*eaking,  Mrs.  Vaughan  has  only  got  her  dismissal  and 


46      ^  I    HAVE    LIVED    AXD     LOVED." 

her  father's  displeasure.  Hut.  at  all  events,  she  knows  that  her 
worst  fears  are  realized,  for  she  docs  not  believe  for  one  moment 
that  Vanessa  will  refuse  to  be  Lady  Orford  when,  the  oppor- 
tunity is  given  her. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

IT  is  with  genuine  regret  that  Vanessa  bids  farewell  to  the 
squire's  .granddaughters.  The  advent  of  John  Brandon  had 
brought  a  new  element  into  her  life — when  he  departed,  she  was 
conscious  of  a  certain  blankness,  or  void.  Edith  arid  Mabel  had 
been  able  to  fill  it  for  the  time,  but  now  they  were  gone  it  came 
back  with  ov^-po  \vering  force.  There  was  no  excitement  now 
in  driving  or  dining  with  the  squire,  and  she  thirsted  for  excite- 
ment and  emotion;  for  something  to  raise  her  out  of  the  dead 
level  of  her  une\  eiitf ul  life. 

What  could  there  be  but  weariness  for  her  in  the  society  of  an 
old  man.  however  rich  and  generous  he  might  be  'i  It  was  not 
fine  raiment  or  jewels,  or  dainty  fare,  or  luxury  for  which  she 
hungered,  but  love:  and  nothing  else  would  satisfy  her. 

It  would  be  idle  to  pretend  that  she  did  not  understand  the 
drift  of  Sir  Bertram's  attentions.  Edith  and  Mabel  would  not 
permit  her  to  remain  in  doubt  on  that  head — it  was  indeed  rather 
flattering  to  her  girlish  vanity  to  think  of  having  an  offer  from 
a  baroner,  and  she  did  not  seriously  realize  the  enormity  she 
would  be  committing  in  treating  the  pretensions  of  so  august  a 
personage  as  she  might  have  done  those  of  a  clerk  or  a  curate. 
To  marry  an  old  man!  the  idea  only  seemed  laughable,  and  had 
not  got  so  far  even  as  to  be  repugnant.  And  the  squire,  who 
was  wise  in  his  generation,  had  never  trenched  upon  anything 
lover-like,  but  had  contented  himself  with  being  friendly  and 
6ourteous. 

A  sense  of  weariness  and  depression  settled  upon  Vanessa  after 
the  departure  of  her  friends;  she  took  long  rambles  in  solitary 
parts  of  Sir  Bertram's  woods,  where  slie  gave  herself  over  to 
reverie,  and  vented  her  sadness  in  long-drawn  sighs.  Some- 
times tears  came  into  her  lovely  eyes  and  stole  down  her  cheeks. 
Her  sighs  and  tears  were  for  vJohn  Brandon;  the  fruit  half  of 
longing,  half  of  remorse.  She  wanted  to  love;  she  could  have 
loved  him — nay,  she  did.  If  he  would  only  come  back  once 
more,  how  differently  she  would  behave  to  him  from  the  last 
time  they  met!  She  blushed  when  she  remembered  her  cool, 
strange  behavior  and  his  mystified,  disappointed  look.  Of  course 
he  would  never  come  near  her  again.  Oh!  if  he  did  come,  what 
a  welcome  would  she  give  him! 

A  week  elapsed,  and  the  squire  decided  that  the  time  had  ar- 
rived to  settle  matters,  and  to  make  arrangements'  for  his  forth- 
coming marriage.  In  two  months'  time  the  vicar's  daughter 
should  be  Lady  Orford.  As  soon  as  all  was  settled,  he  would 


the  key  in  the  lock  of  the  casket  and  handed  it  over  to  him. 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.*  17 

As  a  little  matter  of  form,  he  intended  to  make  the  flattering  an- 
nouncement of  his  intentions  to  the  vicar  firsthand  then  to  the 
blushing,  trembling  maid  herself. 

To  understand  Sir  Bertram's  confidence  in  the  fulfillment  of 
his  desires,  one  would  almost  be  compelled  to  enter  into  his  auto* 
cratic  mind  and  look  down  from  that  exalted  position  at  the 
humble  persons  he  was  condescending  to  honor. 

Having  decided  upon  the  day  and  hour  when  he  would  make 
known  his  resolve,  he  sent  a  note  to  the  vicar  announcing  that 
he  would  call  at  four  o'clock  in,  the  afternoon,  and  the  vicar  was 
accordingly  waifcmg  in  the  drawing-room  to  receive  him,  utterly 
unsuspecting  the  honor  about  to  be  thrust  upon  him.  A  man  with 
ordinary  shrewdness  might  have  gathered  some  idea  of  the  mean- 
ing of  the  sudden  rapprochement  between  the  Hall  and  the 
Vicarage;  but  Ivan  Went  worth  had  only  one  idea  in  the  world, 
and  that  was  fixed  on  the  great  work  he  one  day  hoped  to  give 
mankind.  He  did  not  realize  that  he  had  a  lovely,  marriageable 
daughter,  or  that  any  one  was  plotting  to  change  the  course  of 
life  at  the  Vicarage;  if  he  had  thought  at  all  about  the  matter, 
he  would  have  admitted  that  it  was  reasonable,  to  suppose  a  man 
might  love  and  want  to  marry  Vanessa,  but  he  did"  not  <hink 
about  it,  or  indeed  anything  else  except  the  darling  of  his  brain. 
His  attention,  now  and  then  dragged  forcibly  off  it  by  his 
clerical  duties^jflew  back  like  a  spring  the  moment  it  was  re- 
leased. 

So,  lost  in  reverie,  he  awaits  the  squire's  visit  without  the  faint- 
est curiosity  as  to  its  object. 

The  great  man  comes  in  with  a  smile  on  his  lips  and  a  pleas- 
ing air  of  condescension.  He  is  about  to  confer  an  honor  on  this 
humble  abode,  and  is  prepared  to  do  it  in  a  princely  and  un- 
grudging spirit. 

"  You,  no  doubt,  conjecture  something  of  tlie  object  of  my 
visit,"  he  begins,  as  soon  as  he  and  the  vicar  are  seated,  and  then 
he  pauses  to  give  his  chosen  father-in-law  an  opportunity  of  look- 
ing gratified  and  conscious. 

The  vicar  racks  his  brain  for  a  moment;  that  absorbed  brain 
which  so  often  plays  the  traitor  to  him  by  running  away  from  the 
every -day  things  that  ought  to  occupy  it.  Is  it  something  about 
the  parish  or  the  church,  or  some  subject  previously  discussed 
between  them  ? 

"  I  confess,"  he  says,  a  little  confusedly,  "that  just  at  this 
moment  I  do  not  quite  call  to  mind " 

Sir  Bertram  interrupts  him.  not  very  well  pleased  at  his  evi- 
dent unconsciousness  of  the  purport  of  his  visit.  But  he  tries  to 
retain  his  smiling  and  urbane  demeanor. 

"Then  I  must  explain  myself.  You  have  not,  I  am  sure, 
failed  to  observe  what  an  impression  your  daughter  has  made 
upon  me  since  my  return  to  the  Hall:  She  is  a  beautiful  and 
charming  girl,  and,  I  doubt  not,  as  amiable  as  she  is  beautiful — 
in  fact,  she  is  quite  fitted  to  adorn  any  station." 

The  vicar's  mind  has  by  this  time  completely  torn  itself  away 
from  the  great  work  and  is  centered  on  the  squire's  oration.  It 
does  not,  however,  receive  quite  the  correct  impression,  but  as- 


48  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

sumes  that  his  visitor  may  have  conceived  the  intention  of 
adopting  Vanessa. 

"She  is  a  very  good  girl,"  he  replies,  "and — and,  yes,  I  sup- 
pose she  is  handsome." 

"There  are  few  more  beautiful  women  in  England,"  returns 
Sir.  Bertram,  feeling  already  something  of  the  pride  of  posses- 
sion, "and  when  surrounded  by  the  apanages  of  rank  and 
wealth,  it  will  be  difficult,  I  fancy,  to  find  one  to  compare  with 
her." 

"  She  has  not  had  the  advantages  that  I  could  have  wished 
for  her."  says  the  vicar,  feeling  a  shade  remorseful  at  not  hav- 
ing tried  to  do  more  for  her  in  the  way  of  accomplishments. 

"  She  is  perfectly  well-informed,"  replies  the  squire,  affably, 
"  and  she  sings  charmingly.  No  doubt  she  would  easily  acquire 
French,  which  it  is  important  for  a  woman  of  fashion  to  be  con- 
versant with — every  advantage  would  be  at  her  disposal." 

The  vicar  is  still  further  confirmed  in  his  idea  of  Sir  Bertram's 
intentions. 

"You  would,  I  think,"  pursues  the  squire,  with  magnificent 
patronage,  "  be  aJble  to  intrust  her  to  me  with  a  feeling  of  per- 
fect security  as  to  her  happiness  and  well-being." 

Ivan  Wentworth  is  a  simple-minded  gentleman,  who  has  lived 
for  many  years  in  great  retirement,  knowing  and  thinking  very 
little  about  men  and  manners.  To  him  Sir  Bertram  is  only  a 
respectable  old  gentleman,  the  grandfather  of  his  daughters 
playmates — a  man  long  past  the  time  when  men  may  be  ex- 
pected to  think  of  young  women  in  any  but  a  paternal  manner. 
No  rumors  of  Sir  Bertram's  liaisons,  of  his  mode  of  life  in  cities, 
have  ever  penetrated  here ;  that  the  old  man  would  fain  be  wooing 
and  love-making  does  not  occur  to  him. 

"  Am  I  to  understand,  Sir  Bertram,"  he  asks,  simply,  "that 
you  are  expressing  a  wish  to  adopt  my  daughter  ?'' 

A  dull  red  creeps  into  the  squire's  dry,  brown  cheek,  and  a 
gleam  of  anger  lights  his  cold  eyes.  In  his  heart  he  savagely 
curses  the  vicar  for  a  blind  fool  of  a  book- worm.  It  is  by  a  very 
strong  effort  of  will  that  he  still  smiles  as  he  says: 

"  If  you  like  to  express  it  in  that  form,"  he  replies.  "  I  pro- 
pose to  adopt  her  by  making  her  Lady  Orford." 

At  these  words  a  strange  transformation  comes  over  the  vicar's 
face.  It  is  one  by  no  means  flattering  to  Sir  Bertram.  He  looks 
shocked,  appalled,  and,  for  the  moment,  is  quite  bereft  of  speech. 
His  brain  is  perfectly  clear  now,  and  he  is  conscious  of  the  full 
horror  of  the  thought  of  uniting  a  lovely,  blooming  child  to  a 
cold,  ungenial  old  man  like  the  one  before  him. 

"  You  seem  surprised,"  remarks  the  squire,  intones  that  all  his 
self-control  cannot  prevent  from  being  harsh. 

"  I  am  indeed,"  almost  gasps  the  vicar. 

Sir  Bertram  feels  his  anger  growing.     He  rises. 

"  I  see  Miss  Wentworth  in  the  garden,"  he  says.  "  I  will  go 
and  talk  to  heivwhilst  you  accustom  yourself  to  the  idea." 

The  vicar  does  not  attempt  to  detain  him,  but  sits  buried  in 
thought  whilst  the  squire  marches  out  and  down  the  gravel  path 


?    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  4$ 

to  join  Vanessa,  who  is  just  making  her  way  to  her  favorite  rose 
bower. 

Ivan  Wentworth  is  the  most  unworldly  of  men— rank,  wealth, 
luxury,  fashion,  possess  no  charm  in  his" eyes.  He  lias  never  had 
any  ambition  beyond  that  of  being  a  scholar.  Nor  does  it  occur 
to  him  that  Vanessa  is  likely  to  "have  any  aspirations  after  the 
world's  pleasures.  She  knows  nothing  of  them.  How  can  she 
covet  what  she  has  never  seen  ?  He  regrets  having  allowed  !3fr 
Bertram  to  go  in  quest  of  her.  She  will  be  shocked  and  terrified 
at  his  proposal — perhaps  he  ought  to  join  them,  and  relieve  her 
of  the  embarrassmant  she  must  be  suffering.  But  the  vicar  i* 
the  most  irresolute  of  men,  and,  in  the  end,  he  takes  his  hat, 
and  walks  off  in  another  direction,  leaving  Vanessa  to  her  fate. 
He  had  omitted  to  mention  the  squire's  intended  visit  to  her,  so 
that  she  is  ignorant  wij;h  wThat  importance  his  call  to-day  is 
fraught. 

When  Sir  Bertram  joins  her,  she  receives  him  in  her  wonted 
pretty,  smiling  manner,  and  he  is  reassured,  and  doubts  not 
that  his  suit  will  be  welcome  to  the  daughter,  although  the 
father  has  taken  it  in  so  singular  and  unbecoming  a  fashion. 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  you  here,"  he  begins,  with  some  meaning 
in  his  tone.  * '  You  were  expecting  me  ?" 

"  No,''  Vanessa  answers,  simply.  Then,  wishing  to  be  polite, 
she  continues:  "  But  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you." 

Sir  Bertram  is  not  inclined  to  beat  about  the  bush. 

"  Are  you  V"  he  says,  and  takes  her  hand. 

With  that  all  the  blood  seems  to  recede  from  Vanessa's  heart 
and  a  feeling  of  the  most  horrible  repulsion  rushes  through  her 
frame.  She  longs  to  drag  her  hand  from  his  clasp,  but  is  half 
afraid  of  him;  half  afraid,  besides,  of  wounding  him.  She  knows 
that  the  moment  has  come.  In  theory,  the  squire's  offer  had 
been  all  very  well.  She  had  never  Breamed  how  terrible  and 
hateful  the  reality  would  be.  He  has  put  off  his  paternal  man- 
ner, and  she  finds  the  change  revolting. 

He  retains  his  hold  of  her  hand,  although  she  is  white  and 
trembling;  but  these  signs  of  fear  and  modesty  are  pleasing  to 
him — he  does  not  understand  their  real  significance. 

"You  have  guessed  all  along,  I  am  sure,"  he  goes  on,  "  the 
feelings  that  you  have  inspired  in  me.  I  only  wonder  how  I 
can  have  remained  blind  to  all  your  beauties  and  charms  so 
long." 

He  draws  nearer  to  her.  Vanessa  holds  her  breath — an  almost 
irresistible  impulse  seizes  her  to  spring  up  and  rush  away  into  the 
house;  to  lock  herself  in  her  room  away  from  him — she,  how- 
ever, masters  it. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  she  utters,  in  a  constrained  voice,  draw- 
ing her  hand  and  herself  further  from  him. 

Although  Sir  Bertram  does  not  expect  to  win  any  real  love 
from  a  woman,  he  yet  thinks  himself  entitled  to  a  certain 
amount  of  simulated  affection,  and  the  cold  embarrassment  of 
the  girl's  voice  does  not  quite  please  him.  He,  however,  takes 
the  hint,  and  begina  to  treat  the  matter  from  its  commercial 
point  of  view. 


50  ^T^HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED." 

"  It  is  unfair  to  the  world,"  he  says,  "  to  deprive  it  of  so  beau- 
tiful a  creature  as  you;  I  wish  to  be  the  means  of  bringing  you 
into  it,  and  of  introducing  you  to  all  its  pleasures  and  enjoy- 
ments. I  shall  be  able  to  deny  you  nothing — as  my  wife,  as  Lady 
Orford,  you  shall  have  advantages  that  will  make  other  women 
envious  of  you,  and  you  will  not,  I  hope,  find  me  too  exacting  in 
return." 

Vanessa  turns  hot  and  cold  as  he  speaks.  She  is  realizing  that 
it  will  be  a  very  serious  thing  to  refuse  the  squire.  His  words, 
although  they  contain  promises  of  all  the  things  she  has  most 
desired,  save  one,  do  not  tempt  her;  if  he  could  give  her  ten 
times  as  much,  it  would  not  weigh  with  her  against  the  horror 
he  inspires  in  her  as  would-be  lover  and  husband—  if  he  were  a 
duke  she  could  not  overcome  her  violent  repugnance  for  the  sake 
of  being  his  duchess.  So  long  as  he  had  been  kind  and  paternal, 
she  had  never  guessed  that  she  could  feel  such  sickening  disgust 
of  him. 

"  I — I  am  veiy  much  honored  by — by  your  kindness,  Sir  Ber- 
tram," she  says,  stumblingly,  "  but — but  I  hope  you  will  not  b« 
displeased  or  offended.  You  have  been  very  good  to  me,  but — 
but  it  would  be  quite  impossible  for  me  to  think  of  you  in — in 
that  sort  of  way." 

Sir  Bertram  does  not  yet  realize  that  he  is  going  to  be  made  a 
fool  of. 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,"  he  says,  almost  gently,  so  bent  on  own- 
ing this  lovely  girl  that  he  is  content  even  to  brook  delay — 
•*  marriage,  we  know,  is  a  serious  consideration  for  a  young 
Jady.  Take  time  to  accustom  yourself  to  the  idea — give  me  op- 
portunities of  proving  my  devotion  to  you — let  us  not  decide 
anything  just  for  the  present." 

A  dreadful  feeling  comes  over  Vanessa  that  he  is  trying  to  en- 
tangle her  into  a  sort  of  consent  to  his  suit,  and  she  resolves  to 
free  herself  once  for  all  whilst  there  is  yet  time. 

"  I  could  never,  never,"  she  cries,  with  great  energy,  "  think 
of  you  in  any  other  way  than  as  a  friend." 

Sir  Bertram  is  unmistakably  froisse  by  these  words. 

"  I  hope,"  he  utters,  in  a  hard  voice,  "  that  you  do  not  intend 
me  to  take  this  quite  seriously." 

"  Indeed,  indeed  I  do,"  she  answers,  almost  excitedly. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  asks  Sir  Bertram,  in  a  harsh,  uncom' 
promising  tone,  "  that,  up  to  this  moment,  you  have  been  ig- 
norant of  the  meaning  of  my  attentions  to  you  ?" 

Vanessa  hangs  her  head  in  silence,  feeling  terribly  ashamed 
and  conscious. 

"  Was  the  possibility  of  my  proposing  to  marry  you  never 
mooted  between  you  and — and  Edith  and  Mabel  V" 

His  voice  and  manner  are  those  of~a  stern  judge.  Vanessa 
feels  like  some  wretched,  unhappy  culprit. 

"  Am  I  to  understand,"  pursues  the  squire,  growing  still  more 
awful,  '•  that  you  thought  it  a  jest  to  encourage  the  passion  of 
a  man  of  my  age  and  position  V  If  so,  let  me  tell  you,  young 
lady,  that  by  such  conduct  you  not  only  disgrace  your  sex,  but 


"-     ti^VE    LIVED    AND    LOVET>  51 

that  you  will  find  3*011  nave  placed  yourself  in  a  very  unpleasant 
situation." 

Vanessa  has  a  fine  spirit  of  her  own,  and  Sir  Bertram's  threat- 
ening tone  rouses  it. 

44  You  could  hardly,"  she  says,  raising  her  head  with  a  proud 
air,  "expect  me  to  refuse  an  offer  before  it  was  made,  and  I 
should  have  thought  that  niy  being  no  older  than  your  own 
granddaughters  would  have  protected  me  from  any  such  ideas 
on  your  part.  You  could  not  have  thought/'  indignantly,  <k  that 
a  girl  of  eighteen  could  love  a  man  of  your  age;  and  if  you 
thought  I  would  marry  you  without  loving  you,  you  must  have 
had  a  very  bad  opinion  of  me." 

The  squire  sits  biting  his  lips  with  Mortification,  and  yet,  in 
epite  of  himself,  he  cannot  help  admiring  her  more  than  ever 
for  her  show  of  spirit.  She  has  never  looked  so  handsome. 
But  after  such  a  decided  expression  of  her  sentiments,  he  feels 
there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said — it  only  remains  for  him  to  take 
his  leave  with  as  much  dignity  as  he  can  summon. 

Sir  Bertram  rises,  stiffens  his  back,  erects  his  head,  and  says 
in  a  voice  as  though  his  sentences  were  forced  out  by  a  spring: 

"  It  is  unfortunate  I  should  have  been  so  mistaken.  I  bid  you 
good  day." 

Vanessa  follows  his  retreating  figure  with  frightened  eyes — 
she  feels  that  she  has  committed  the  crime  of  lese-majeste,  and 
the  wrath  of  the  autocrat  is  very  terrible.  This  is  no  longer  the 
smiling,  affable  old  gentleman  with  whom  she  has  been  wont  to 

g\ay  of  late,  but  the  squire  with  all  his  old  terrors  augmented, 
he  waits  for  a  few  moments  with  bated  breath  until  she  thinks 
he  must  be  clear  of  the  house;  then  she  flies  to  her  room,  locks 
the  door,  and  gives  vent  to  her  feelings  by  a  burst  of  tears. 

Meanwhile  Sir  Bertram,  bitter  beyond  all  expression  of  words, 
passes  through  the  Vicarage  gate  on  his  way  home.  As  he 
emerges,  he  sees  to  his  left  at  some  little  distance  two  men  walk- 
ing, engaged  in  earnest  conversation.  One  is  leading  a  horse, 
and  in  him  the  squire  recognizes  the  hated  form  of  Brandon. 
He  strides  away,  fury  added  to  bitterness;  unmindful  of  the 
heat,  he  walks  at  racing  speed  up  the  drive,  to  the  Hall  and  into 
his  study,  where  he  gives  vent  to  a  very  effective  string  of  curses 
and  imprecations,  although  there  is  no  one  present  to  be  annihi- 
lated by  them.  He  begins  to  realize  how  sore  his  disappointment 
is.  and  how  much  he  had  counted  on  the  possession  of  the  vicar's 
lovely  daughter.  He  is  angrily  surprised  now  to  think  that  he 
should  have  felt  so  certain  of  her:  that  he  had  not  prepared  him- 
self against  such  a  possibility.  But  who  could  dream  of  so 
humble  an  individual  declining  such  honor  ?  if  he  were  willing 
to  confer,  who  could  imagine  that  she  would  refuse  ? 

He  had  made  his  plans  for  the  autumn  and  winter — they  were 
to  be  spent  abroad  in  company  with  his  beautifuj  young  wife; 
and  he  had  dwelt  with  considerable  pleasure  on  the  coming 
change  in  his  life.  Now  everything  was  disarranged;  where  an- 
ticipation had  reigned,  disappointment,  blank  dullness  stood  in- 
stead—he was  only  a  lonely  old  man,  and  no  lorq;er  an  eager, 
expectant  bridegroom. 


52  7    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVE&T 

He  cursed  the  girl  who  had  humiliated  him  in  no  measurecl 
terms;  he  longed  to  be  revenged  on  her — lie  would  give  a  very 
large  sum  of  money  at  this  moment  to  do  her  some  mortal  in- 
jury and  disgrace.  The  thought  of  Brandon  lent  fuel  to  the 
flames.  Why  was  he  here  ?  what  was  the  topic  that  so  deeply 
engrossed  him  and  the  vicar?  He,  n«o  doubt  was  the  favored 
rival.  Then  the  squire  cursed  the  vicar  for  not  telling  him  that 
his  daughter  already  had  a  suitor,  and  thus  saving  him  the  mor- 
tification of  a  refusal.  Anon  he  lashed  himself  into  fresh  fury 
by  thinking  that  father  and  daughter  had  conspired  to  deceive 
him  into  making  the  offer,  that 'they  might  have  the  glory  of 
boasting  how  they  had  befooled  him;  in  his  anger,  he  was  ready 
to  impute  the  most  knp:obable  thoughts  and  motives  to  every 
one.  Brandon,  curse  him!  was  gloating  over  his  discomfiture, 
and  would  spread  the  story  in  London  of  how  he  had  been  duped 
by  an  insignificant  hussy.  He  wished  him  joy  of  her.  No 
doubt  one  of  these  days  his  turn  would  come,  and  then  they 
would  see  whom  the" laugh  was  against. 

And  the  angry,  disappointed  man  worked  himself  into  such  a 
paroxysm  of  fury  that  unable  to  command  his  voice  or  features, 
he  remained  locked  in  his  room  for  hours,  unmindful  of  dinner 
or  of  arousing  the  servants'  suspicions,  or  of  anything  save  his 
own  wrath  and  spite. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

BRANDON  has  tried  to  forget  Vanessa;  has  even  been  abroad  in 
search  of  distraction.  In  vain.  She  has  taken  root  in  his  heart, 
and  though  he  may  chide  his  folly  for  hankering  after  the  fair 
maiden  who,  he  tells  himself,  is  too  young,  too  beautiful,  and 
altogether  too  good  for  him,  he  cannot  banish  her  from  his 
thoughts.  At  all  events,  he  will  see  her  once  more.  Why 
should  he  not  be  her  friend  if  he  cannot  be  her  lover  ?  So  he  has 
come  off  suddenly,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  to  assure  him- 
self whether  she  is  as  lovely  as  he  thinks  her,  and  perhaps, 
though  he  does  not  admit  it  even  to  himself,  to  see  if  his  case  is 
quite  hopeless. 

When  he  is  within  two  hundred  yards  of  the  Vicarage,  he 
espies  his  friend  rapidly  approaching."  As  the  vicar  recognizes 
Brandon,  a  lock  of  intense  relief  and  pleasure  comes  into  his 
face.  ^ 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  says,  grasping  the  other's  hand,  "  how 
glad  I  am  you  are  here!  I  was  never  so  pleased  to  see  any  one 
in  my  life.  I  am  in  a  most  curious  dilemma;  I  fear  I  have  not 
done  the  right  thing.  Pray  advise  me!'" 

Therewith  Brandon  dismounts,  having  a  shrewd  suspicion 
that  the  beautiful  daughter  is  in  someway  connected  with  the 
vicar's  perplexity. 

"  The  squire  has  just  been  with  me,''  proceeds  Mr.  Went- 
worth,  kt  he  came  to  ask  me  for  my  daughter  in  marriage.  It  is 
monstrous,  horrible!  He  is  with  her  now.  Poor  child!  1  fee] 
that  I  ought  not  to  have  allowed  him  to  speak  tojigt-gn  the  sub 


**~     ""I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  53, 

ject.     She  will  be  shocked,  horrified;  but  he  is  a  resolute,  im- 
periousman.     In  my  surprise  1  knew  not  how  to  act." 

A  deep  flush  comes  over  Brandon's  face  as  the  vicar  speaks. 
It  is  not  that  he  is  surprised  at  the  intelligence;  it  is  because  he 
has  a  dreadful  misgiving  that  Vanessa  may  look  upon  the 
squire's  proposal  in  a  different  light  from  her  father,  and  that 
she  niay  be  temptefl  to  exchange  her  dull  life  here  for  some  of 
the  world's  pomps  and  pleasures,  even  though  th^  enjoyment  of 
them  be  coupled  with  so  odious  a  condition  as  Sir  Bertram  him- 
self. 

'*  Do  you  think,"  he  asks,  in  a  low,  nervous  tone,  "  that  Miss 
Wentworth*  will  be  quite  unprepared  for  Sir  Bertram's  pro- 
posal ?" 

The  vicar  stares  at  him. 

"I  am  not  surprised,"  Bralidon  goes  on.  "You,  my  dear 
Ivan,  are  so  engrossed  with  your  book  that  you  do  not.  take 
much  notice  of  what  is  going  on  about  you;  but  when  I  was 
here  before,  I  perceived  plainly  Sir  Bertram's  feelings  for  your 
daughter  and  quite  expected  this  denouement,  And  I  think  you 
will  find  that  Miss  Wentworth  was  not  without  her  suspicions.** 

"  You  seem  to  forget,"  cries  the  vicar,  aghast,  "  that  he  is  an 
old  man,  that  her  playmates  and  companions  are  his  grand- 
daughters.*' 

"  I  live  in  the  world,"  replies  Brandon,  "and  see  such  mar- 
riages every  day:  at  all  events  with  some  frequency.  There  is 
no  incongruity  in  society's  eyes  when  the  man  is  as  rich  as  Sir 
Bertram  and  occupies  sucn*k  position.  I  only  wonder  $rour  sus- 
picions were  not  aroused  sooner." 

"  How  should  they  have  been  aroused?"  cries  the  vicar,  almost 
indignantly. 

"Why,  surely,  if  it  is  only  during  the  last  two  months  that 
Sir  Bertram  has  sought  your  society  and  that  of  your  daughter, 
and  if  his  whole  demeanor  has  changed  toward  you  since  then, 
you  might  have  attributed  it  to  some  new  state  of  feeling  on  his 
part.  I  only  hope,"  and  Brandon's  voice  trembles  in  spite  of 
him,  "  that  Miss  Wentworth  will  not  give  a  favorable  ear  to  his 
suit,  for  I  confess  there  is  something  very  revolting  in  the  idea 
of  a  lovely  young  girl  being  given  a  prey  to  a " 

It  is  at  this  moment  that  the  squire  emerges  from  the  vicarage 
gate,  marching  in  hot  haste  toward  his  own  park. 

"  He  does  not  look  like  an  accepted  suitor,"  cries  Brandon, 
breaking  off  4iis  former  sentence  and  looking  intensely  relieved. 
*'  Well,  I  will  go  and  put  my  horse  up  whilst  you  hear  the  result 
of  the  interview  from  Miss  Wentworth." 

Vanessa  is  still  sobbing  when  Susan  taps  at  her  door.  She 
makes  no  answer  at  first,  then  Susan,  having  tried  the  handle  in 
vain,  repeats  her  summons. 

"Miss  Nessa,  my  dear,  let  me  in,"  she  entreats,  in  a  cajoling 
whisper,  through  the  keyhole. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  cries  Vanessa,  throwing  open  the  door 
and  looking  rather  an  angry  divinity  with   her  flushed   f 
knitted  brows,  and  streaming  eyes. 

Susan  '  ;?!:e  a  little  awe-struck  as  well  as  mysterious. 


54  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

"  Ycmr  pa  is  asking  for  you,  and  Mr.  Brandon's  come,"  she 
says,  still  in  a  whisper. 

At  this,  the  pucker  leaves  Vanessa's  brow;  a  wave  of  beauti- 
ful color  overspreads  her  cheeks,  and  a  sudden  thrill  of  gladness 
goes  to  her  heart. 

"My  dear,"  murmurs  Susan,  going  up  and  laying  her  hand 
on  the  girl's  arm,  "  you've  never  bin  and  refused  the  squire, 
have  you?" 

"  What!"  cries  Vanessa,  sharply,  "  would  you  have  me  marry 
an  old  man  like  that :" 

"No.  no,  my  dear,  of  course  not!"  returns  Susan,  soothingly. 
"  Only  it  seems  such  an  awful  thing  to  refuse  a  great  gentlemian 
like  him.  Why,,  whatever  did  he  say?" 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Brandon?"  asks  Vanessa,  not  answering  her, 
but  going  to  the  glass  to  see  what  ravages  her  tears  have  made 
in  her  appearance.  "  Get  me  out  a  clean  frock."  And  she  pro- 
ved s  vigorously  to  bathe  her  eyes  and  cheeks,  whilst  Susan, 
with  feminine  intuition,  gets  out  her  young  lady's  best  and  most 
becoming  dress.  She,  however,  makes  the  mistake  of  laying  out 
the  squire's  locket. 

"  Put  that  horrid  thing  away,  and  never  let  me  see  it  again!" 
cries  her  young  mistress,  imperiously. 

She  is  standing  before  the  glass,  twisting  up  her  beautiful 
locks  with  lingers  trembling  with  impatience.  She  is  in  a  great 
hurry  to  see  Brandon  again. 

By  the  time  her  toilet  is  finished  he  has  returned  to  the 
Vicarage. 

"  Well?"  he  exclaims,  hurriedly,  as  he  enters  tlie  room  and 
tinds  his  friend  alone;  but  the  vicar  has  not  yet  had  audience  of 
his  daughter.  Presently  she  comes  in,  and  greets  Brandon  with 
a  serene  and  smiling  face.  But,  eying  her  narrowly,  he  detects 
traces  of  tears  in  the  slightly  swollen  appearance  of  her  broad 
eyelids.  It  is  obvious  that  no  explanations  can  take  place  now, 
and  the  vicar,  glad  of  the  excuse  of  shirking  anything  unpleas- 
ant, leaves  them  presently  to  wander  in  the  garden  together,  and 
goes  to  have  an  hour  with  his  beloved  book* 

Brandon  is  devoured  by  curiosity.  Although  he  is,  as  a  rule, 
the  least  inquisitive  of  men,  and  the  most  delicately  sensitive 
r.bout  seeming  intrusive  or  impertinent,  he  knows  not  on  this 
asion  how  to  control  his  eagerness  to  hear  what  answer 
Vanessa  has  given  the  squire — whether  she  has  refused  him  at 
ail,  refused  him  conditionally,  or  allowed  him  room  to  hope? 
He  is  so  preoccupied  that,  as  he  walks  beside  her,  he  is  silent, 
\mable  to  speak  on  any  subject  but  the  one  that  so  engrosses 
him.  She  is  employing  various  little  coquetries  to  overcome  his 
gravity  and  silence,"  but  he  is  absorbed  in  fighting  with  his  im- 
perative desire  to  question  her.  It  ends  by  mastering  him. 

"  Well!"  he  says,  quite  suddenly  and  abruptly,  devouring  her 
with  his  eyes,  "  am  I  to  congratulate  you?" 

She  gives  a  little  start,  and  looks  extremely  confused. 
1  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  stammers,  though  of  course  *he 
s  quite  well. 


LIVED    AND    LOVED.  55 

"  Are  you  to  be  Lady  Orford  ?"  he  asks,  quite  unconscious  how 
harsh  and  inquisitorial  his  tone  is. 

"Why  should  you  think  so  ?"  she  says,  her  feminine  nature 
asserting  itself  sufficiently  to  make  her  rather  pleased  at  this  ex- 
hibition of  anxiety  and  jealousy  on  his  part. 

Brandon  is  too  eager  to  know  the  truth  to  waste  time  \n  beat- 
ing about  the  bush. 

"  Your  father  told  me  that  Sir  Bertram  had  proposed  to  him 
lor  you,"  he  replies. 

44  And  what  did  papa  say?"  Vanessa  asks. 

'*  He  said  it  was  a  horrid,  monstrous  thought!"  cries  Brandon, 
"  And  so  I  say," 

**  Did  he  tell  Sir  Bertram  that?"  inquires  Vanessa. 

"  He  ought  to  have  done  so,"  answers  Brandon,  warmly. 
"  But  he  was  too  utterly  taken  by  surprise.  4<  But,"  breaking 
off,  "  for  Heaven's  sake,  tell  me  what  you  said.  That  is  the 
point." 

"  What  do  you  think  I  should  say  ?"  utters  Vanessa,  affecting 
indignation. 

44  I  think  you  would  say  *  No,'  he  answers,  vehemently.  **  I 
think  you  would  feel  insulted  and  degraded  by  such  a  pro- 
posal." 

44  Degraded  ?"  echoes  Vanessa,  proudly. 

"  No,  no,  pardon  me — I  ought  not  to  have  used  such  a  word. 
It  is  natural  that  every  man,  young  or  old,  should  love  you,"  he 
continues,  in  a  melancholy  voice — "  a  man's  sense  of  his  own  un- 
h'tness  cannot,  unfortunately,  prevent  his  falling  in  love." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  says  Vanessa,  in  a  penitent  tone.  "  But  I 
think  he  ought  to  have  known  it  was  ridiculous.  I  was  his 
granddaughter's  playfellow." 

Brandon  looks  earnestly  at  her. 

**  Still,"  he  utters,  **  you  were  not  entirely  without  suspicion 
of  what  was  passing  in  his  mind,  were  you  ?  When  he  changed 
from  a  *  horrid  old  monster '  to  *  quite  a  dear,'  you  had  some  little 
inkling  as  to  the  cause  of  the  transformation  ?" 

Vanessa  turns  her  face  from  him,  and  stops  to  pluck  a  rosebud, 
He  seems  to  be  waiting  for  her  answer. 

44  One  would  be  very  conceited,"  she  says,  carefully  avoiding 
his  glance,  "  if  one  thought  because— because  any  one  was  kind 
to  one,  that  he  wanted  to  marry  one." 

"  A  woman  always  knows  when  a  man  is  in  earnest,"  remarks 
Brandon,  continuing  his  eager  scrutiny  of  her  face;  "she  may 
think  sometimes  that  he  is  when  he  is  not,  but  she  cannot  mis- 
take the  symptoms  when  he  is." 

"  I  have  had  no  experience,"  murmurs  Vanessa. 

"  1  saw  it  when  I  was  here  before,"  pursues  Brandon.  "  Sir 
Bertram  deigned  to  be  jealous  of  my  enjoying  your  society. 
Tell  me,"  suddenly,  "  what  did  he  say  to  you  that  day  to  alter  all 
your  manner  to  me  ?" 

The  scarlet  flames  into  Vanessa's  cheeks — she  would  rather  die 
than  confess  the  ignominious  doubts  of  which  she  has  been  so 
bitterly  ashamed  ever  since.  Seeing  her  confusion,  Brandon  be- 
comes more  eao'er  «*ill.  and  repeats  his  question 


56  r    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED 

"  Tell  me,"  he  entreats — "tell  me;  I  shall  not  mind;  cn>y  tell 
me!" 

«""No,  no,  there  is  nothing  to  tell,"  answers  Vanessa,  almost 
vehemently,  as  if  she  feared  her  secret  being  dragged  from  her 
by  main  force;  "  indeed  there  is  not." 

"  But  before  he  came,"  utters  Brandon,  "  you  were  quite  easy 
and  natural  in  your  manner  to  me.  You  seemed,  if  I  may  be 
vain  enough  to  say  so,  quite  contented  in  my  society — and 
after  you  had  been  talking  with  Sir  Bertram,  you  changed  en- 
ti^y,  and  were  cold  and  constrained.  I  might  almost  have  im- 
agined he  had  been  telling  you  some  dreadful  story  to  my  dis- 
advantage, only  that  "  (with  a  frank  laugh)  "  my  conscience  is 
quite  clear." 

"  I  cannot  think  why  you  should  fancy  anything  of  the  sort," 
says  Vanessa. 

"  Ah,  but  there  was  something,"  he  persists.  "  However,  I 
must  not  press  you,  if  you  will  not  tell  me  of  your  own  £ree  will. 
But  confess  that  it  was  natural  I  should  think  his  influence  over 
you  must  be  considerable  to  make  you  change  so  suddenly." 

Vanessa  shakes  her  head.  She  is  determined  not  to«  admit 
anything. 

"  After  all,"  pursues  Brandon,  "  though  he  is  an  old  man,  Sir 
Bertram  has  a  great  deal  to  offer  you,  and  I  am  quite  sure  there- 
never  was  a  woman  who  would  enjoy  the  world's  pleasures  more 
than  you.  Do  you  mean  to  go  on  living  here  forever  in  this 
simple  Arcadian  style,  and  do  you  think  it  will  always  satisf v 
you?" 

"It  does  not  satisfy  me,"  answers  Vanessa,  with  a  deep  and 
genuine  sigh. 

"  You  seemed  quite  happy  the  first  time  I  saw  you,"  says 
Brandon. 

"  Yes,"  murmurs  Vanessa,  and  sighs  again. 

"  Then  what  has  changed  you?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  replies  vaguely.  "Edith  and  Mabel 
have  been  here,  and  they  have  told  me  all  about  their  life  in 
London.  Perhaps  it  is  that." 

She  cannot  tell  him  that  it  is  he  who  has  nad  the  largest  share 
in  making  her  dissatisfied  with  her  life — that  it  is  he  who  has 
turned  dreams  into  possible  realities,  and  awakened  in  her  a 
longing  to  love  and  be  beloved. 

There  is  a  pensive,  yearning  expression  in  her  eyes,  as  though 
afar  off  she  sees  the  goal  of  her  desires.  Every  moment  that 
Brandon  is  in  her  presence  he  is  falling  more  deeply  in  love. 
He  longs  to  speak,  to  tell  her  something  of  what  is  in  his  heart; 
but  suppose  she,  should  treat  his  pretensions  as  she  has  done  the 
squire's!  And  the  old  sense  of  its  being  unfair  to  take  advantage 
of  her  ignorance  of  the  world  and  of  men  comes  back  to  him 
with  renewed  force. 

Vanessa  is  in  a  mood  when  she  would  like  him  to  speak;  the 
repulsion  which  Si*  Bertram  inspired  in  her  has  reacted  to  Bran- 
don's advantage,  but  he  is  not  to  know  this. 

With  an  effort  he  changes  his  tone,  and  says,  lightly: 

fi  I  suppose  vour  friends  had  a  great  deal  to  jell  you  about  the 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  57 

flights  of  their  first  season.     I  met  them  once;  they  are  pretty, 
unaffected  girls, — the  younger  one  seemed  full  of  lite  and  spirits." 

"  Yes,"  Vanessa  answers,  "  Mab  is  very  bright/' 

"You  have  not  forgotten,  I  hope,"  observes  Brandon,  "that, 
vou  promised  to  come  and  pay  me  a  visit,  and  see  for  yourself 
what  London  is  like." 

"I  thought  you  had  forgotten,"  and  there  js  a  shade  of  re- 
proach in  Vanessa's  voice. 

"  I  am  not  very  likely  to  forget,"  he  says.  *'  But  you  would 
not  thank  me  for  asking  you  in  August,  when  there  is  no  one 
and  nothing  to  be  seen." 

"  I  dare  say  it  would  seem  very  gay  to  me.   I  should  not  know* 
the  difference.    They  do  not  shut  the  shops,  I  suppose,  and  there 
must  always  be  thousands  of  people  about  in  a  large  city." 

"  Not  the  sort  of  people  you  would  care  to  see  or  mix  with," 
smiles  Brandon. 

"  But  I  should  not  know  them,  so  it  would  make  no  difference. 
I  should  like,"  with  a  gesture  significant  of  weariness,  "  to  get 
away  from  here  for  a  little,  and  to  see  something  else." 

"The  country  is  just  at  its  best  now,"  says  Brandon,  "and 
London  at  its  worst.  Would  you  exchange  your  lovely  flowers 
and  this  fresh,  beautiful  air  for  a  stifling  atmosphere  and  glar- 
ing pavements  ancthot  rooms?" 

"  I  think  it  would  be  a  delightful  change,"  and  Vanessa 
smiles.  "  One  gets  tired  of  the  same  thing  when  it  goes  on  for- 
ever and  ever." 

"At  all  events,'  says  Brandon,  "you  shall  try.  Wait  until 
next  month,  and  I  will  do  my  very  best  to  make  London  agree- 
able to  you." 

All  her  face  lights  up  with  pleasure. 

"  Change!"  muses  Brandon  to  himself,  as,  later,  he  walks  to- 
ward the  village  inn.  "  Change!  That  is  huriian  nature,  I  su^ 
pose;  never  to  be  satisfied  with  the  same  thing  long." 

He  is  to  partake  of  high  tea  at  the  Vicarage,  and  to-morrow, 
at  his  friend's  earnest  request,  he  has  promised  to  come  over  and 
spend  a  couple  of  days  with  them.  It  is  very  dangerous  to  his  own 
peace  of  mind,  he  knows; 'doubtless  he  will  suffer  severely  for  it 
later,  but  at  the  present  moment  the  greatest  happiness  he 
knows,  or  cares  for,  is  to  be  at  Vanessa's  side,  and  he  flings  pru- 
dence to  the  winds  as  recKlessly  as  though  he  were  twenty 
years  younger. 

The  vicar,  seeing  his  daughter  coming  up  the  garden  alone, 
joins  her.  He  is  considerably  embarrassed  as  to  how  he  shall 
approach  the  delicate  subject  of  the  squire. 

"3Tou  saw  Sir  Bertram,  I  suppose  V"  he  says,  quite  confused 
and  almost  blushing. 

"  Yes,  papa,"  Vanessa  answers,  rather  coldly. 

"I  am  afraid" — hesitatingly — "it  must  have  been  rather— 
rather  painful  for  you." 

"  Why  did  you  let  him  speak  to  me,  pj*.pa?"'  sa  -  Vanessa,  at' 
fecting  a  lightly  injured  air. 

"  I  was  so  surprised — so  confounded,"  replie  a,r,  apolo* 


58  1    HAVE    LIVED    AND 

getically.    "  And  he  gave  me  no  time  for  reflection  01  consider** 
tion." 

"  lie  is  old  enough  to  be  my  grandfather,*'  continues  Va- 
nessa. 

"  Exactly  so,"  agrees  her  father.  "I  cannot  imagine  how  he 
coulu  ever  have  entertained  such  an  idea.  And  yet,  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  represent  that  to  a  man  of  his  age.  One  is  reluctant  te 
hurt  his  feelings.  I  hope  " — anxiously — "  you  expressed  your- 
self as  kindly  as  possible.  It  will,  nr/ doubt,  be  humiliating  to 
him  to  reflect  upon  having  committed  a  foolish  action." 

11 1  have  no  doubt  he  will  be'our  enemy  for  life,"  remarks  Va- 
nessa, whose  mind  is  much  more  practical  than  her  father's. 

This  suggestion  disconcerts  the  vicar  so  greatly  that  he  repeats 
it  to  himself  two  or  three  times,  and  then  falls  into  a  reverie,  of 
which  Vanessa  takes  advantage  to  leave  him,  and  repair  to  her 
room  to  embellish  herself  for  the  evening  meal. 

Brandon,  on  his  return,  finds  the  vicar  alone. 

"  I  have  not  been  able  to  elicit  much  from  my  daughter,"  he 
says,  attacking  the  subject  at  once.  "  Except,  of  course,  that 
she  was  very  naturally  shocked  and  surprised.  She  seems  to 
think  " — hesitatingly — *'  that  her  refusal  will  make  an  enemy^f 
the  squire:  but  surely,  surely  no  man  would  be  so  unreasonable 
as  to  entertain  ill  feeling  to  people  who  have  so  innocently  and 
unwillingly  offended  hi  in  ?" 

•  •  A  man  is  always  angry  with  any  one  who  shows  him  that 
he  lias  made  a  fool  of  himself,"  remarks  Brandon.  "  I  am  afraid 
there  are  a  great  many  fools  about.  Look  here,  Ivan" — sud- 
denly—4' I  suppose  it  has  never  entered  your  brain  that  I  am  in 
love  with  your  daughter  ?" 

4'  You!"  stammers  the  vicar,  showing  plainly  by  voice  and 
manner  that  this,  too,  is  a  revelation  to  him. 

••  Yes,"  says  Brandon,  steadily;  **  and  so,  probably,  would 
nine  men  out  of  every  ten  be  who  saw  her.  And,  I  suppose," 
speaking  with  effort,  but  looking  his  friend  full  in  the  face, 
4 'you  are  only  one  degree  less  shocked  than  you  were  by  Sir 
Bertram's  declaration;  for,  if  he  is  old  enough  to  be  her  grand- 
father, I  am  old  enough  to  be  her  father  —you  and  I  are  nearly 
the  same  age,  Ivan." 

"  You.  seem  qiiite  a  young  man  compared  with  me,"  says  the 
vicar;  "  but  I  confess  all  this  sudden  talk  of  love  and  marriage 
confuses  my  brain— I  know  not  what  to  think  orsajV 

' 'That  is  because  your  brain  is  so  occupied  with  one  subject 
that  you  can  see  and  think  of  nothing  else,"  returns  Brandon, 
"  But,  my  dear  Ivan,  you  ought  to  think  about  your  daughter's 
future.  Is  not  the  fate  of  a  beautiful  young  girl,  your  own  flesh 
and  blood,  of  more  importance  than  a  book  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes — of  course,  of  course,"  assents  the  vicar,  looking  a 
little  bit  ashamed  of  himself.  "  I  had  not  realized  that  she  was 
grown  up.  But  have  you  spoken  to  her? — does  si  -  know  any- 
thing of — of  your  feelings  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  answers  Brandon,  looking  awa^  .  "  I  do  not 
feel  that  it  would  be  fair  to  try  to  win  her  affections  until  she  has 
seen  other,  younger  men.  But,"  suddenly, 


LIVED    AND    LOVKu.  59 

— if  I  could  make  her  care  for  ine,  should  you  object  to  me  as  a 
husband  for  her,  either  on  the  score  of  my  age  or  any  other  ac- 
count !" 

"  No,  no,"  answers  the  vicar,  warmly—"  you  are  the  greatest 
friend  I  ever  had.  If  you  can  win  her  affection,  I  should  be 
glad  and  happy.  Only  that,"  musingly,  '  the  idea  is  so  new 
and  strange  to  me  altogether,  I  scarcely  seem  able  to  grasp  it. " 

As  Brandon  rides  away  that  evening,  he  is  torn  in  two  by  .his 
desires  and  his  conscience.  Shall  he  speak  to-morrow,  or  shall 
he  forbear  ?  What  a  look  she  gave  him  from  those  lovely  eyes 
at  parting!  Did  she  know  how  much  it  said?  His  heart  thrilla 
with  rapture  at  the  thought  of  possessing  her.  But  what  if, 
later,  she  should  repent,  and  know  that  she  had  thrown  herself 
away?  There  ar3  some  temptations,  however,  that  are  too  strong 
for  a  man. 


CHAPTER   X. 

IN  the  moonlit  night,  Brandon  and  Vanessa  are  standing  by  the 
gate  leading  into  the  meadow.  The  cows  are  taking  their  rest 
— long  ago  the  birds  have  ceased  their  songs;  a  hush  has  fallen 
on  the  night — there  is  only  the  gentle  rustle  of  whispering 
leaves  to  break  the  silence.  The  moon  makes  a  mirror  of  yon 
water- pool;  anon  a  breath  of  wind  shivers  it  into  a  hundred 
shining  fragments — the  breeze  goes  by,  and  the  pool  is  again  a 
silver  mirror. 

The  swift  and  strong  emotions  that  are  hurrying  through  Bran- 
dorrs  heart  give  a  troubledlook  to  his  face:  doubt,  desire,  honor- 
able scruples,  irrestible  longing.  Vanessa  is  smiling,  serene,  un- 
ruffled; if  her  heartbeats  a  shade  quicker  than  its  wont,  her  face 
gives  no  evidence  of  it. 

She  looks  at  the  cows  and  the  water-pool — he  looks  at  her, 
aiid  suddenly  resolves  to  speak.  His  voice  sounds  strange  to 
his  own  ears  as  well  as  to  hers — the  strangled  emotion;  the 
tremulousness  of  it  makes  her  turn  involuntarily  to  look  at 
him. 

"  I  dare  not  speak,"  he  says,  "  and  yet  1  cannot  be  silent.  Tell 
me  what  to  do!" 

His  tone  is  imploring,  as  though  he  would  say,  "  Put  me  out  of 
nay  misery  at  once!'*  She  smiled  shyly,  perhaps,  but  certainly 
invitingly.  So  Brandon  goes  on  impetuously:  • 

"  You  are  so  beautiful,  and  I  love  you  so  devotedly,  and  yet  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  committing  almost  a  crime  in  asking  you  to  marry 
me.  because  you  are  so  much  too  young  and  too  lovely — too  alto- 
gether above  and  beyond  me." 

Vanessa,  like  most  of  her  sex,  is  pleased  to  be  treated  as  a  god- 
dess. She  smiles  encouragingly  at  him:  with  her  eloquent  eyes 
she  benevolently  bids  him  not  despair.  Then  he  approaches  a 
little  nearer  and  takes  her  hand ;  his  reverence  still  mastering  his 
passion. 

"I  would  give  all  I  have  to  make  you  mine,''  hu  says,  "  and 
yet  I  know  I  am  taking  an  unfair  advantage  of  you.  Perhaps 
you  fancy  that  you  like  me  a  little— do  you  '""  breaking  off 


CO  i     HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

passionately — "  tell  me:  do  you  care  for  me  just  the  least  bit  m 
tne  world  ?  I  am  not  repulsive  to  you  ?  you  do  not  shrink  from 
me  ?' 

And,  as  though  to  test  what  she  can  endure  from  him,  he  bends 
forward  and  touches  her  lips  with  his.  She  trembles  and  draws 
back  a  little,  but  it  is  from  emotion  and  modesty,  not  from  dis- 
gust, and  he  knows  the  difference. 

"My  darling!"  he  murmurs,  and  then  he  releases  her  and 
leans  for  a  moment  against  the  gate,  trying  to  still  his  beating 
pulses.  She  is  looking  away  from  him  to  hide  her  crimson 
blushes. 

But  Brandon's  troublesome  conscience  will  not  allow  him  to 
take  with  a  thankful  heart  and  outstretched  hands  what  the  gods 
have  sent. 

"I  won't  ask  you  to  marry  me  yet,"  he  says;  "you  must 
see  other  men  first— you  must  be  sure  of  yourself  first.  In  six 
months'  time — after  you  have  been  to  Condon,  you  shall  de- 
cide." 

Vanessa  feels  a  shade  disappointed — no  woman  can  ever  under- 
stand or  feel  flattered  by  a  man  giving  her  up,  or  offering  to 
give  her  up  for  her  own  sake. 

•'  Why  should  you  think  I  do  not  know  my  own  mind  ?"  she 
says,  in  a  low  voice,  looking  for  a  moment  into  his  face,  and 
then  away  beyond  him. 

"  Because,  my  sweet,"  he  answers,  catching  her  hand,  "  if  it 
would  be  heaven  to  me  to  have  you,  it  would  be  worse  than 
hell  after  you  were  mine  to  think  you  regretted  it  or  that  some 
other  man  might  have  made  you  happier." 

''But  I  am  sure,"  she  says,  with  a  pretty  air  of  conviction, 
"  that  no  other  man  would  make  me  happier."  And  she  turns 
a  look  upon  him  that  bereaves  him  of  judgment,  and  conscience, 
and  everything  except  love. 

'  After  that  he  throws  prudence  to  the«vind — if  a  voice  within 
him  tries  to  speak,  he  strangles  it  with  passionate  fury.  He 
abandons  the  idea  of  taking  his  bride-elect  to  London — he  refuses 
to  entertain  the  thought  of  a  six  months'  courtship — he  is  in  ter- 
ror of  his  life  lest,  between  this  and  his  marriage-day,  she  shall 
see  some  younger,  better-favored  man — he  scans  the  little  village 
congregation  to  discover  whether  among  it  there  is  any  good- 
looking  yeoman,  who  might  please  a  woman's  eye.  He  gives 
specious*  reasons  for  hastening  the  wedding — he  wants  to  take 
his  wife  abroad  before  the  fine  weather  goes — he  must  be  settled 
in  town  again  by  the  middle  of  October. 

Susan  is  the  person  who  demurs  most  at  the  haste — she  thinks 
of  the  "  trusso  "  which  she  weuld  fain  confection  with  her  own 
diligent  fingers.  Vanessa  is  dazzled  by  the  pictures  her  lover 
draws  her  of  the  sights  to  be  seen— most  of  all  by  the  thought 
of  Paris;  and  the  vicar,  a  little  bewildered  and  perplexed,  is  still 
father  thankful  at  having  a  responsibility  taken  off  his  hands  to 
the  seriousness  of  which  he  has  only  just  been  made  alive. 

Brandon,  like  all  generous  men,  is  looking  forward  to  lavish- 
ing  presents  and  beautiful  things  on  his  loved  one;  he*  there- 
for*, knowing  the  vicar's  purse  to  be  slender,  undertake*'  the 


4*    IT   HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVEK.  SI 

ordering  of  a  moderate  trousseau,  and  has  the  bill  so  cleverly  * 
manipulated  that  it  is  not  until  Vanessa  has  learned  by  practical 
experience  the  costliness  of  feminine  attire  that  she  guesses  the 
deception  which  has  been  practiced  upon  them.  If  ever  a  man 
had  reason  to  believe  that  he  was  going  to  be  married  for  love's 
sake,  Brandon  has.  He  is  Vanessa's  first  love;  she  heaps  upon 
him  all  that  adoration  with  which  her  ripening  woman's  heart 
IB  overflowingj  Were  he  a  thousand  Romeos  and.  Adonises  in 
one,  he  could  not  be  more  pleasing  in  her  eyes.  She  was  thirst- 
ing for  love — she  loves,  and  is  supremely  blessed. 

And  Brandon,  if  he  is  more  of  a  straightforward,  matter-of- 
fact  English  gentleman  than  of  a  romantic  and  idealistic  lover, 
has  refined  and  delicate  instincts  which  prevent  him  from  jar- 
ring the  susceptibilities  of  an  innocent  and  inexperienced  young 
maiden,  whilst  his  passionate  love  forbids  her  ever  to  feel  the 
disappointment  which  an  exacting  woman  sometimes  suffers  in 
a  lover  considerably  older  than  herself. 

Vanessa  turns  away  from  the  altar  on  her  wedding-day  beam- 
ing with  smiles;  as  for  Brandon,  his  happiness  almost  oppresses 
him. 

Theirs  was  a  honeymoon  of  the  real  old-fashioned  sort,  all 
smiles,  and  love,  and  fair  weather;  there  were  no  desillusions, 
no  bitter  awakenings  and  passionate  disappointments.  The 
bridegroom  did  riot  find  the  bride  an  exacting  woman  of  whom 
he  began  to  realize  the  possibility  of  growing  weary:  the  bride 
did  not  discover  that  the  bridegroom  was  but  a  selfish  man  and 
would-be  tyrant  who  had  only  assumed  a  chivalrous  and  wor- 
shiping demeanor  until  he  obtained  what  he  served  for.  They 
adored  each  other;  they  were  surrounded  by  the  loveliest  scenes; 
everything  was  new  and  enchanting  to  Vanessa.  She  was  not 
capricious,  but  delighted  with  everything,  grateful  for  every- 
thing—a beautiful,  happy,  satisfied*  woman.  She  showed  her 
love  in  her  expressive  eyes,  by  a  thousand  fascinating  little 
gestures;  without  knowing  it,  she  took  all  the  world  into  her 
confidence  as  to  her  feelings  for  Brandon,  and  we  may  imagine 
whether  this  was  bliss  to  a  man  who  adored,  but  who  yet  felt 
himself  too  old  for  and  all  unworthy  of  such  an  exquisite  creat- 
ure. At  this  time,  every  curled  darling  in  the  Household  Brigade 
might  have  tried  his  blandishments  on  Mrs.  Brandon  and  only 
encountered  defeat  and  failure;  there  existed  but  one  man  for 
«Jier;  all  the  rest  were  simple  units  going  to  make  up  the  great 
world. 

So  Vanessa  was  happy  beyond  the  happiness  meted  out  to 
common  mortals — to  indemnify  her  perhaps  for,  or  to  make 
more  bitter,  the  anguish  and  despair  that  the  future  held  in  store 
for  her . 

Why  do  we  suffer  ?  Why  do  we  rejoice  ?  Why  are  we  ever- 
lastingly going  up  or  down  in  the  balances  of  joy  and  misery  ? 
Nothing  is  as  good  as  it  seems,  nor  yet  anything  so  bad,  We 
are  crushed  with  misery,  we  give  up;  life  is  a  burden  too  griev- 
ous to  be  borne,  and  then  some  little,  sudden,  unexpected  gleam 
of  hope  or  pleasure  comes  to  us  and  gives  us  power  to  struggle 
OB.  Or  we  are  triumphant,  radiant,  a  great  piece  of  good  fort* 


fa  HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

une  is  ours,  After  all,  the  world  is  a  very  pleasant  place;  and 
hey,  presto,  a  horde  of  petty  cares  and  vexations  creeps  in,  and 
steals  away  the  honey  from  our  flower.  How  can  we  live  on 
and  smile  and  weave  projects  when  in  an  hour's  time  we  may 
be  lying  stone  dead,  or  shipwrecked  in  hope  and  heart— nay, 
much  more,  when  beyond  the  grave  there  stretches  that  awful 
uncertainty  ? 

But  Brandon  and  Vanessa  were  supremely  happy.  The  most 
morbid  and  dyspeptic  wretch  would  not  have  dared  to  air  his 
pessimist  ideas  in  presence  of  their  bliss;  he  would  have  crept 
away  and  howled  in  anguish  at  such  a  living  refutation  of  his 
theory  of  universal  misery,  even  though  he  took  comfort  in  the 
knowledge  that  their  time  would  also  come. 

The  middle  of  October  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brandon  installed  in 
their  comfortable,  old-fashioned,  roomy  house  in  Bryan ston 
Square.  It  had  been  left  to  Brandon  by  a  spinster  aunt  some 
seven  years  before,  and  he  had  lived  there  ever  since,  and  saw- 
no  reason  for  changing  his  habitation  now.  Had  he  married  a 
fashionable  woman,  she  would  probably  have  ''tip-tilted"  her 
nose  at  it,  and  insisted  on  exchanging  it  for  a  bijou  residence  in 
a  more  desirable  quarter,  but  Vanessa,  who  was  quite  ignorant 
of  locality  in  London,  and  had  everything  to  learn,  thought  it  a 
palace,  and  was  delighted  with  it.  After  a  fortnight  spent  irv 
Paris,  her  raptures  about  London  were  naturally  modified, 
though  the  idea  of  shops  and  theaters  still  presented  enormous 
attractions  to  her.  When  she  had  been  a  week  in  her  new  house, 
she  was  surprised  and  horrified  to  find  the  time  beginning  to 
hang  heavy  on  her  hands — to  feel  a  sense  of  weariness  and  list- 
Jessness  and  a  depression  of  spirits  such  as  she  had  never  known 
.  before.  It  was  easily  to  be  accounted  for,  though  she  was  not 
experienced  enough  to  tracethe  ctTuse  of  her  malady,  or  rather 
malaise.  It  was  reaction — the  penalty  demanded  for  having 
been  too  happy.  For  six  weeks  she  had  lived  in  a  whirl  of 
pleasure  and  excitement,  among  new  scenes  and  almost  cloud- 
less skies— most  of  all,  she  had  been  blest  with  the  constant 
presence  of  the  man  she  loved.  Now  he  was  away  the  greater 
part  of  the  day,  and  she  had  to  spend  her  time  quite  alone  in  his 
absence.  She  was  accustomed  almost  to  live  in  the  air,  to  run 
out  bareheaded  into  a  garden  fifty  times  a  day,  and  now  she 
could  not  even  walk  out,  because  there  was  no  one  to  accompany  . 
her,  and  driving  about  in  a  brougham  was  rather  dull  work,  as 
she  had  not  yet  learned,  nor  had  the  opportunity,  to  distract 
herself  with  shopping  and  visiting.  Added  to  this,  there  were 
already  fogs,  and  the  atmosphere  was  gray  and  murky.  She 
could  not  settle  to  anything. 

She  played  the  piano  a  little,  read  a  little,  looked  out  of  the 
window  a  great  deal,  and  yawned  a  great  deal.  There  were  no 
domestic  cares  to  occupy  her.  Mr.  Brandon  had  an  admirable 
housekeeper,  who  still  held  the  reins  of  government  to  the  gen- 
eral benefit  of  every  one.  Vanessa  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
amuse  herself,  and  a  very  severe  task  she  found  it.  She  had  not 
at  present  a  friend  of  either  sex.  Edith  and  Mabel  happened  fce 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  68 

be  in  London,  but  they  were  not  allowed  to  see  or  speak  to  her. 
Edith  had  written  to  her. 

il  MY  DARLING  NESSA, — I  am  so  grieved  that,  though  we  are 
passing  through  London,  I  dare  not  see  you.  Grandpapa  has 
forbidden  us  to  hold  any  intercourse  with  you  under  the  most 
awful  penalties.  Of  course  we  guess  what  happened,  though 
you  may  be  sure  he  did  not  tell  us.  I  should  have  flown  to  see  you 
at  once,  but  mamma  would  not  allow  it,  as  she  said  it  might  ruin 
our  prospects  if  he  found  it  out.  What  a  shajne  it  is  one  can't 
be  happy  one's  own  way  in  this  worlcl!  I  don't  think  it's  much 
of  a  place,  after  all.  They  have  been  worrying  me  to  marry  him 
— the  man  I  told  you  about — but  I  won't."  1  would  rather  die! 
I  am  not  like  Mab.  Sir  Thomas  Belton  paid  her  a  great  deal  of 
attention  at  a  house  where  we  were  staying  last  week,  and  she 
swears  she  will  have  him  if  he  proposes.  He  is  fifty,  and  very 
plain,  and  one  of  his  front  teeth  is  black  !  She  calls  him  her 
black  pearl.  You'll  think  me  very  selfish  talking  so  much  about 
ourselves.  I  suppose  you  are  awfully  happy,  having  married  a 
man  you  are  so  fond  of.  How  I  envy  vpu!  I  thought  Mr, 
Brandon  so  very  nice  the  only  time  I  met  him!  I  can't  tell  you 
how  grieved  I  am  not  to  be  a*ble  to  see  you,  If  I  am  ever  inde- 
pendent, you  may  be  sure  I  shall  fly  to  you  at  once. 

"  Your  loving,    '  EDITH." 

Inclosed  was  a  scrawl  from  Mab. 

"My  ADORED  NESSA,  — I  am  quite  rnad  at  not  being  able  to 
see  you.  Tm"s  is  the  old  Gorgon's  revenge.  I  would  give  the 
world  to  know  what  happened  when  you  refused  him.  I  have 
captivated  a  rich  old  person,  and  if  he  proposes  I  shall  accept 
him.  I  don't  believe  in  love.  I  suppose  you  do'—  just  now  at 
all  events.  I  suppose  you  are  a  dreadfully  spoony  couple.  If  I 
marry  the  old  person,  I  shall  at  once  defy  grandpapa,  and  come 
and  spend  a  week  with  you  in  Bryanston  Square.  It  is  such  a 
long  way  off  that  you  couldn't  possibly  ask  anybody  for  less  than 
a  week.  But  I've  no  doubt  it's  charming  when  you  get  there. 
Give  my  love  to  St.  George.  I  call  him  St.  George  because  he 
rescued  you  from  the  dragon.  Good-bye,  my  darling  love. 

"  Always  your  devoted,  MAB." 

Never,  at  home  in  her  quiet  village,  had  Vanessa  longed  for 
the  companionship  of  these  girls  as  she  did  now — in  the  heart 
of  the  country  she  had  not  realized  what  dullness  and  solitude 
meant.  She  yearned  for  Susan— in  default  of  seeing  her,  she 
would  have  liked  to  write  her  reams  of  letters;  but  Susan,  as 
she  said  herself,  was  "no  scholard,"  and  a  letter  to  her  meant 
labor  and  sorrow.  And  Vanessa's  letters  would  not  have  been 
intended  for  other  eyes. 

As  long  as  Brandon  was  at  home,  his  wife  was  happy  and 
radiant  as  ever,  so  that  he  had  no  idea  of  her  sufferings  in  his 
absence,  unti*  one  morning  she  astonished  him,  and  herself,  too, 
by  bursting  into  a  flood  of  tears  as  he  was  bidding  her  good-bye, 
flinging  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  imploring  him  J^iot  to 
leave  her.  He  had  an  important  appointment,  and  wa*  com- 
pelled to  keep  it,  but  all  day  long  he  wa*  violently  pertwbed  in 


64  HAVE    LIVED    AND    LCVEl>T 

his  mind  After  all,  she  was  not  happy — after  his  beautiful 
dream,  the  awakening  he  had  foreseen  was  coming;  she  had 
been  pleased  at  first,  like  a  child  with  a  new  toy,  but  already 
she  was  desillusionnee  and  disappointed.  He  was  as  happy  as 
ever  himself,  or  had  been  up  to  this  disastrous  moment;  but 
then  his  mind  was  occupied  all  day,  and  he  had*  his  beautiful 
darling  to  return  to  with  fresh  zest  after  his  work.  - 

When  he  reached  his  office  that  morning  he  shut  himself  in,  j 
and,  buried  in  a  chair,  gave  himself  over  to  reflection.  He  was 
*of  an  equable  temperament;  not  given  to  violent  emotions,  but 
he  could  not  shake  off  the  bitter  sense  of  disappointment  and 
foreboding  which  the  scene  of  the  morning  had  caused  him. 
He  also  had  to  pay  for  having  been  too  happy.  Being,  how- 
ever, possessed  of  a  practical  mind,  he  realized  soon  enough 
what  was  the  cause  of  Vanessa's  disenchantment.  She  wanted 
companionship,  amusement,  but  most  of  all,  air  and  exercise — a 
London  house  was  to  her  like  a  cage  to  a  wild  bird.  He  would 
fain  have  said  to  her  as  men  are  wont  to  say  to  a  wife  who  com- 
plains of  loneliness,  "  Have  some  woman  to  stay  with  you!  ask 
your  sister,  your  cousin,  or  your  aunt!"  but  Vanessa  had  no  rela- 
tions and  no  friends  of  her  own  sex,  except  the  two  from  whom 
she  was  cut  off  by  circumstances  of  which  he  must  be  the  last 
to  complain.  He  had  no  near  female  relation  himself.  He 
turned  over  in  his  mind  his  women  friends.  Those  he  would 
have  liked  Vanessa  to  know  and  be  intimate  with  were  not  in 
town  now.  and  there  were  others  who  had  been  friendly  enough 
with  him  in  his  bachelor  days  who  would  probably  take  no  in- 
terest in  him  now  that  he  was  married,  and  still  less  in  his  wife. 
Something  he  must  do — tears  in  those  radiant  eyes  there  should 
not  be;  he  would  neglect  his  business — do  anything  rather  than 
that  "she  sjiould  be  dissatisfied  and  unhappy.  He  would  be  more 
with  her.  Then  came  a  thought  which  inflicted  a  strange  pang 
upon  him.  Would  his  society  always  be  enough  to  content  her. 

After  long  ruminating,  he  conceived  several  plans  for  his  be- 
loved one's  benefit,  and  confided  them  to  her  the  same  evening. 
She  was  sitting  with  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and  his  arm  round 
her,  in  their  usual  fashion— her  tears  were  forgotten  like  a 
child's — she  was  smiling,  caressing,  happy  as  he  had  always  seen 
her  until  this  moaning.  , 

"  I  have  been  thinking  about  you  all  day,  my  darling,"  John. 
Brandon  says,  tenderly.  "  I  can't  bear  to  see  tears  in  those  dear 
eyes  "  (kissing  them).  "  You  are  to  be  happy— if  you  are  not  I 
shall  never  forgive  myself  for  having  married  you." 

"  But  I  am  happy,"  cries  Vanessa,  impetuously,  "  the  happiest 
woman  in  the  world  as  long  as  you  are  with  me.  I  should  like 
to  hold  you  so,"  flinging  her  white  arms  round  his  neck  and 
clasping  him  tight,  ' '  so  that  you  couldn't  get  away  from  me  ever 
again." 

"  I  wish  you  could,"  answers  Brandon.  "  But  J  am  not  rich 
enough  to  cut  business  yet." 

**  wfe  could  live  in  a^small  house  instead  of  a  big  one.v  purrs 
Vanessa,  coaxingly.  "  Think  how  nice  it  wouixi  be  to  be  always 
togethei  r* 


7    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED:  45 

It  is  not  for  Brandon  to  tell  her  that  satiety  results  from  too 
much  companionship  of  married  lovers — he  only  caresses  her 
hair,  and  says  it  would  be  heaven  upon  earth. 

"  But,"  he  pursues  presently,  "  since,  my  dear  love,  I  cannon 
always  stay  at  home  with  you,  let  us  think  how  you  are  to  be 
amused  whilst  I  am  away." 

Vanessa  pouts,  and  swears  that  in  his  absence  nothing  can 
amuse  her. 

He,  however,  returns  steadily  to  the  charge.  She  is  to  have  a 
nicey  pleasant,  confidential  maid,  who  is  to  accompany  her  in 
her  walks,  for  she  must  go  out  more — he  has  that  very  day  or- 
dered a  victoria  because  a  brougham  does  not  give  her  air  enough 
— he  has  opened  a  subscription  at  a  library.  Would  she  like 
a  dog  ?  and  does  she  not  think  (this  diffidently)  that  some  les- 
sons in  music  and  singing  would  amuse  as  well  as  benefit  her  ? 
He  thinks  she  plays  and  sings  divinely,  but  lie  supposes  that  one 
is  always  capable  of  being  improved  in  these  accomplishments. 

After  Vanessa  has  embraced  him  a  thousand  times,  and  as- 
severated that  she  wants  nothing  in  the  world  but  him,  she  con- 
sents to  his  suggestions,  and  in  due  course  the  superior  maid  is 
found,  and  a  pug-dog,  which  becomes  the  apple  of  her  eye.  She 
enjoys  her  drives  in  the  victoria,  feasts  her  eyes  in  the  shop- 
windows  every  morning,  talges  interest  in  her  singing  lessons, 
devours  hundreds  of  novels,  and,  for  the  present,  Brandon  sees 
no  more  tears,  and  only  one  want  which  he  is  unable  to  supply 
—the  want  of  a  woman  friend. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

IN  his  bachelor  days  Brandon  had  a  considerable  circle  of  ac- 
quaintance. But  unless  a  man  has  a  settled  position  in  society, 
or  marries  a  woman  who  has,  it  is  extraordinary  how  tins 
circle  narrows  if  he  marrj.es.  There  were  plenty  of  women  in 
society  who  had  been  pleased  to  know  him  and  to  be  civil  to 
him — he  was  a  gentleman  born  and  bred,  and  had  good  man- 
ners. They  did  not  want  to  marry  him — he  was  not  rich  enough 
to  give  a  cachet  to  his  business— but  they  met  him  in  society;  he 
was  never  intrusive — that  was  enough.  But  to  know  and  visit  his 
wife  was  a  very  different  affair — he  must  drop  out  of  their  sphere 
into  his  own  place  now,  unless  she  happened  to  be  taken  up  in 
the  proper  quarter.  Then,  wine-merchant,  horse  dealer,  01 
pedicure,  what  mattered  his  business  or  profession! 

Brandon  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  thrust  himself  or 
any  one  belonging  to  him  forward.  This  lessened  his  chances 
of  getting  on  considerably.  He  would  have  done  anything  in 
the  world  for  his  wife  "except  run  the  risk  of  getting  her 
snubbed.  Bu«t  he  asked  some  of  the  "good"  men  whom  he 
knew  to  come  and  dine,  in  the  hope  that,  having  seen  how  beau- 
tiful and  charming  Vanessa  was,  they  would  send  their  women 
to  call  on  her. 

And  if  it  had  only  depended  on  the  men  Mrs.  Brandon  would 
had  a  most  refined  and  desirable  circle  about  her; 


66  J    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

unfortunately,  a  man's  good  word  is  rarely  of  .much  benefit  to  a 
pretty  woman.  » 

The  men  told  their  wives  about  her:  the  wivc-s  asked  the  in- 
evitable question,  "  Who  icas  she  T  Sometimes  the  husbands  did 
not  know:  sometimes  they  replied  that  she  was  the  daughter  of 
a  country  parson.  Now  it  is  eminently  respectable  to  be  the 
Daughter  of  a  clergyman — more  respectable  than  to  be  the  daugh- 
ter of  any  other  professional  man;  but  it  does  not  carry  any 
great  weight  "with  it  unless  the  clergyman  be  a  bishop  or  an  arch- 
deacon, or  the  holder  of  a  rich  family  living. 

•  '*  But  she  might  be  a  duchess!"  the  men  said,  with  enthusiasm, 
which,  somehow,  was  rather  displeasing  to  their  ladies,  and  se- 
cretly damaged  Vanessa  in  their  eyes.  Two  or  three  of  them 
left  cards  in  Bryanston  Square,  but  that  meant  nothing — they 
did  not  ask  for  her,  nor  invite  her  to  their  houses  after  she  had 
l«ft  cards  in  return;  and  Mrs.  Brandon  did  not  even  know  them 
by  sight. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  wives  of  many  city  men,  and  rich  Ty- 
burnians  whom  Brandon  knew,  hastened  to  call  upon  the  newly- 
married  pair,  and  to  entertain  them  at  banquets.  Vanessa  knew 
nothing  by  practical  experience  of  society,  or  of  the  different 
classes  of  which  it  is  composed;  but  she  soon  became  aware  that 
these  rich,  well-fed,  over-dressed  women,  who  were  sometimes 
honestly  jovial  and  vulgar,  and  sometimes  had  disagreeable 
affectations  of  fine  ladyism  and  pedantry,  were  not  congenial  to 
her.-  She  remembered  the  teachings  of  Edith  and  Mabel,  and 
recognize  1  with  secret  heart-burning  that,  as  the  wife  of  a  man 
of  business  on  a  moderate  scale,  her  social  status  did  not  entitle 
her  to  mix  with  the  people  whom  she  would  have  liked  to  know. 
She  was  delighted  with  the  men  who  came  without  their  wives 
—most  of  the  men  who  came  wnth  their  wives  were  offensive 
and  almost  intolerable  to  her  refined  taste.  She  tried  carefully 
to  conceal  her  feelings  from  her  husband,  for  whom  her  love 
continued  undiminished.  He  was  a  perfect  gentleman,  she  told 
herself,  man  of  business  or  not;  but  after  a  time  when  they  were 
invited  to  rich  men's  houses,  she  would  say  to  him,  coaxingly, 
"  Don't  you  think,  darling,  we  are  much  happier  at  home  to- 
gether than  at  those  long,  stupid  dinners?"  And,  if  the  feast 
was  not  at  the  house  of  a  client  whom  he  did  not  wish  to  offend, 
he  consented  to  their  having  a  previous  engagement.  By  degrees 
it  began  to  be  whispered  in  Tyburnia  that  Mrs.  Brandon  gave 
herself  airs,  and  the  ladies  there  asked  themselves  with  a  differ- 
ent accentuation,  the  question,  "  Who  was  she  9"  not  "  Whotras 
she  ?''  The  daughter  of  some  paltry  curate,  with  a  hundred  a 
year,  most  likely!  For  they  despised  poverty  as  well-bred  people 
despise  wealth  when  it  is  allied  to  vulgarity. 

There  was  one  visitor  always  feted  in  Bryanston  Square,  and 
though  he  came  of  ten  and  stayed  long,  he  never  overstayed  his 
welcome.  He  was  known  to  his  intimates  as  Charlie  Dallas. 
His  full  names  and  titles  were  Colonel  the  Honorable  Charles 
Dallas,  formerly  of  the  First  Regiment  of  Guards,  from  which  he 
retired  soon  after  the  Crimean  war.  with  a  wound  and  two 


LIVED    AND    ^OVELT  '37 

medals.  He  was  agreeable,  the  reverse  of  rich,  and  he  was  fond 
of  pretty  women  in  a  Dleasant,  fatherly  sort  of  manner. 

"  I  can't  think/'  he  used  to  say,  ;'  why  old  fellows  like  me 
don't  see  that  they  disgust  women  by  trying  to  make  love  to 
them  when  they  are  only  too  glad  to  have  ns  for  friends.  I  am 
the  friend  of  every  pretty  young  woman  who  chooses,  and  it 
makes  my  life  very  pleasant." 

Colonel  Dallas  was  distinguished-looking;  his  manners  were 
perfect;  he  always  said  the  right  thing,  and  the  pleasant  thing, 
unless  some  one  was  rude  to  him,  in  which  case  any  friend  of 
Charlie's  would  have  bft'ered  odds  as  to  the  offender  coming  off 
second-best. 

He  had  known  and  liked  Brandon  from  a  boy;  but  it  was  only 
when  he  became  the  husband  of  a  loved  wife  that  Colonel  Dal- 
las discovered  what  an  immense-regard  he  had  for  him.  Va- 
nessa charmed  and  delighted  him — she  perfectly  fulfilled  his  idea 
of  beauty  and  breeding  in  a  woman — she  was  vivacious,  grace- 
ful, gracious;  all  her  instincts  were  delicate  and  refined — per- 
haps her  chief  charm  lay  in  the  fact  that  she  was  so  delighted 
with  him  and  took  such  pleasure  in  his  society. 

The  colonel  was  accustomed  to  be  taken  up  by  pretty  women, 
and  made  much  of  and  thrown  over  when  the  particular  friend 
appeared  on  the  scene,  and  he  always  knew  how  to  retire  with 
an  excellent  grace;  but  here  there  was  110  throwing  over;  no  par- 
ticular friend— he  was  always  received  with  smiles,  and  speeded 
with  regrets;  and  Brandon  welcomed  him  as  heartily  as  Va- 
nessa. 

The  colonel  was  very  much  exercised  in  his  mind  on  the  sub- 
ject of  his  beautiful  young  friend.  He  loved  and  admired  her 
—lie  felt  she  ought  to  be  in  a  different  sphere,  but  he  was  ex- 
ceedingly puzzled  as  to  whether  transplanting  her  would  really 
conduce  to  her  happiness  and  to  her  husband's.  She  was  devoted 
to  Brandon — she  seemed  contented  with  her  lot;  and  yet,  now  and 
then,  he  fancied  he  detected  in  her  symptoms  of  longkrg  after 
the  pleasures  and  excitements  of  the  world. 

Vanessa  was.  in  truth,  conscious  of  secret  yearnings— con- 
scious of  a  disappointment  which  she  would  not  confess  to  her- 
self. Hers  was  the  disappointment  of  almost  every  young  girl 
who  marries.  The  passionate  lover  had  subsided  into  the  kind, 
tranquil,  affectionate  husband,  and  she,  like  most  women  who 
have  just  begun  to  love,  ^ould  fain  have  kept  the  lover  for  five 
years,  or  ten,  or,  perhaps,  to  all  eternity.  It  is  very  hard  on 
women,  no  doubt,  that  having  the  same  feelings  as,  if  in  a  lesser 
degree  than,  men  (though  men  ignorantly  deny  this),  that  three 
months'  passion  should  I>e  thought  enough  to  last  their  lifetime, 
and  one  love  as  much  as  any  decent  woman  ought  to  want, 
whereas  men  may  indulge  their  feelings  ad  infinitwm. 

Brandon  was  so  kind  and  fond  that  Vanessa  would  have 
thought  herself  a  monster  of  ingratitude  to  complain;  but  ha 
was  certainly  not  the  Brandon  who  had  wooed  her  in  her  coun- 
try home,  and  been  her  cicerone  among  those  lovely  foreign 
scenes.  He  was  secure — he  no  longer  thought  her  a  creature  of 
illimitable  perfections  whom  he  had  committed  a  crime  in  mar- 


Co  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED] 

rying.  He  loved  her  perhaps  better;  she  was  the  dearest,  sweet- 
est girl  in  all  the  world— she  was  the  only  \voinan  who  existed 
for  him:  but  lie  had  got  over  the  demonstrative  stage  and  loved 
her  in  a  quiet,  sober,  sensible  manner.  But  that  is  a  manner  in 
which,  as  a  rule,  young  women  do  not  appreciate  being  loved. 

The  winter  passed,  and  by  the  time  the  London  season  began 
the  colonel  had  taken  the  place  of  the  superior  maid  in  prublic, 
and  was  Vanessa's  escort.  Many  an  older  man  than  Charlie 
Dallas  might  have  compromised  a  woman  by  being  her  constant 
companion,  but  everybody  knew  that  Charlie  was  a  man  of  honor 
and  "  as  safe  as  the  bank;"  besides,  that  was  "  not  his  line." 

The  steps  of  the  pair  were  most  frequently  turned  to  the  Row, 
for  Vanessa  was  never  tired  of  this  brilliant  kaleidoscope,  and  as 
the  colonel  knew  every  one  and  who  every  one  was,  it  made  it 
extremely  entertaining.  It  was  from  no  selfish  motives  that  he 
refrained  from  introducing  to  her  the  many  golden  youths  who 
came  up  to  him  in  "the  hope  of  making  Vanessa's  acquaintance, 
but  from  honest  scruples  about  her  husband's  peace  of  mind. 
He  was  so  genuinely  devoted  to  her  that  he  would  have  done 
anything  to  give  her  pleasure. 

Just  at  first  Vanessa  was  quite  content  to  look. on  and  know 
the  names  of  the  fashionable  women  who  wore  pretty  frocks 
and  had  a-chic  air,  and  of  the  men  who  were  so  handsome  and 
well  dressed,  and  at  whose  numbers  she  was  astonished.  She 
had  been  told  that  Englishmen  were  a  good-looking  race;  now 
it  was  proved  to  her  by  ocular  demonstration.  By  and  by  when 
she  observed  that  most  of  these  attractive  young  people  of  both 
sexes  seemed  to  know  and  to  enjoy  the  most  pleasant  and  in- 
timate relations  with  each  other,  she  began  to  feel  a  little  bit 
left  out  in  the  cold.  When  one  fine, May  day  the  colonel  took 
her  into  the  Mall  and  showed  her  the  ladies  going  to  Court  in 
their  diamonds  and  feathers,  with  their  big  bouquets  and  smil- 
ing, well-satisfied  faces,  a  pang  of  envy  shot  through  her  breast. 
For  Vanessa  had  ambitious  instincts,  and  a  great  love  of  and 
desire  for  pleasure — she  had,  besides,  the  innate  consciousness 
that  she  was  fit  to  share  in  the  world's  galas.  Colonel  Dallas, 
who  was  exceedingly  shrewd,  understood  her  feelings  and  was 
more  than  ever  exercised  in  his  mind.  He  asked  himself  over 
and  over  again  what  would  be  the  result  of  giving  her  the  entree 
into  society.  She  was  as  pure  and  innocent  as  she  was  beau- 
tiful; but  untested  virtue  counts  for  nothing — she  was  simply 
•devoted  to  her  hiisband,  but  when  these  handsome  young  fel- 
lows, for  whose  idle  hands  it  is  Satan's  especial  delig'ht  to  find 
mischief,  began  to  make  ardent  love  to  her  (as,  of  course,  after 
the  manner  of  their  kind  and  thetmstom  of  the  day  they  would), 
what  about  the  good,  well-meaning,  middle-aged  husband  at 
home  ? 

One  day  as  they  sat  in  the  Row  and  two  pretty  women  passed 
talking  with  great  vivacity  to  two  gallant  cavaliers,  Vanessa 
sighed,  and  said: 

"  How  Jiappy  all  these  women  seem!  How  delightful  it  must 
b6  to  know  every  one— every  one  nice,  at  least!*' 

That  evening  the  colonel  took  up  his    parable    as  tje  and 


1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOV&D.  & 

Brandon  were  sipping  their  after-dinner  claret.  Vanessa  iiad 
just  left  them. 

4 'You  are  a  fortunate  man,  Brandon,"  Dallas  began,  though 
the  remark  was  made  more  with  a  view  to  opening  the  bail  of 
conversation  than  because  he  really  thought  his  host  what  he 
professed  to  think  him.  To  be  the  husband  of  a  very  beautiful 
woman  was,  to  his  experienced  inind,  rather  a  doubtful  piece  of 
good  fortune. 

But  Brandon  answered  in^the  heartiest  manner,  evidently  de* 
void  of  all  misgiving. 

"  You  are  right,  colonel,  I  am." 

"  I  don't  think  there  is  a  lovelier  woman  in  London,'1  pursued 
Pallas;  4<  indeed,  I  am  quite  sure  there  is  not." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Brandon,  with  emphasis.' 

"  Talk  of and ,"  exclaimed  the  colonel  mentioning  the 

names  of  some  ladies  who  had  taken  double  ftrsts  in  the  ranks  of 
beauty,  "  why,  they  can't  hold  a  candle  to  her." 

"  So  I  think,"  answered  Brandon. 

Now  came  the  difficult  part  of  the  colonel's  task. 

"  She  ought  to  be  among  them;  she  ought  to  be  in  the  best 
society — she  is  fit  for  anything!"  And  he  paused,  waiting  to  see 
the  effect  of  his  words.  * 

Brandon  met  him  more  than  half  way. 

'*  That  she  is!"  he  said?  "  I  only  wi$ii  to  Heaven  I  could  take 
her  into  the  society  she  is  fit  fdr;  but  you  know,  colonel,  in 
my  position,  it  is  not  a  very  easy  matter.  I  used  to  know  plenty 
of ~ women  of  the  right  sort,  but  I  can't  ask  them  to  notice  my 
wife,  and  they  don't  seem  inclined  to  do  it  of  their  own  ac- 
cord." 

"  Naturally,"  answered  the  colonel.  *'  When  women  are 
obliged  to  admit  a  new  beauty  they  do  it  with  a  tolerably  good 
grace,  and  even  pretend  to  rave  about  "her,  but,  by  Jove!  they'll 
keep  her  out  as  long  as  they  can." 

"  I  should  be  only  too  glad  to|  see  her  in  her  proper  sphere," 
said  Brandon.  "  I  would  do  anything  to  get  her  there  short  of 
making  her  look  small  and  subjecting  her  to  rebuffs.  You  know 
what  biting  snubs  you  well-bred  people  can  give!" 

"  But,"  observed  the  colonel,  fixing  his  eye  on  a  picture  in  the 
distance,  "  supposing  now  your  wife  had  an  opportunity  of  get- 
ting into  society,  you  wouldn't  have  any — any  scruples?  You 
know  we  live  in — in  rather  a  fast  age;  a  pretty  woman  is  subject 
to — to — h'm — a  good  deal  of  admiration." 

44 1  shouldn't  have  the  smallest  scruple  in  the  world,"  replied 
honest  John  Brandon.  "  God  bless  her!  I'd  trust  her  anywhere. 
All  I  want  is  to  see  her  happy  and  amused." 

Perhaps  the  colonel  thought  his  host  over-confident.  He 
heaved  a  slight  sigh. 

"  May  I  bring  my  niece,  Hermione  Fane,  to  call  on  her  ?"  he 
asked,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"  I  should  think  it  very  kin^  of  you,"  answered  Brandon, 
warmly.  •  % 

So  there  was  nothing  left  for  Charles  Dallas  but  to  arrange  the 
matter  with  his  niece.  It  is  very  dangerous  and  imprudent  to 


1    WAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

promise  anything  tar  a  lady,  especially  that  she  will  be  kind  and 
civil  to  an  unknown  member  of  her  sex,  but  the  colonel  was 
tolerably  confident  about  his  niece,  who  was  a  very  kind-hearted 
and  pleasant  little  lady,  and  exceedingly  fond  of  him  into  the 
bargain. 

The  next  afternoon  he  was  ushered  into  her  boudoir  at  six 
5'elock. 

'4  Is  it  possible,"  lie  said,  after  kissing  her,  >4  that  I  am  so  fort- 
unate as  to  find  you  alone!  Where  are  all  the  soupirants  ?" 

Mrs.  Fane  is  small,  pretty,  extremely  animated,  and  beautifully 
tkessed.  She  looks  the  blithest  little  mortal  in  existence— her 
path  seems  strewn  with  roses,  and  although  all  the  world  knows 
there  is  one  very  *harp  thorn  among  them,  she  steps  on  it  with 
such  an  unflinching  smile  that  no  one  believes  she  suffers  any  in- 
convenience from  it. 

*'  How  are  you,  ckjar  Uncle  Charlie  ?"  she  says,  gayly.  "  I  am 
'not  at  home'  to-day,  but  Peregrine  is  a  wise  man,  and  knows 
that  you  are  always  to  be  let  in.  I  will  give  you  some  tea,  and 
we'll  have  a  nice  chat.  And  pray,  sir,"  archly,  teapot  in  hand, 
"  what  are  these  mysterious  rumors  I  hear  of  you,  and  who  if 
the  beautiful  and  unknown  fair  one  by  whose  side  you  are  dailj 
seen,  and  with  whom  you  disappear  regularly  at  hincheon-time. 
to  some  haunt  beyond  the  ken  of  civilization  ?  You  were  watched 
one  day  as  far  as  the  Marble  Arch,  and  across  Oxford  Street,  and 
then  they  gave  you  up  in  despair." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  have  come  to  talk  to  you  about,"  answers 
the  colonel,  smiling. 

*4  Is  it  true,"  cries  Mrs.  Fane,  "  that  she  belongs  to  a  cele- 
brated shop  in  Oxford  Street,  and  that  you  are  going  to  marry 
her'.'" 

''Yes,  Hermy."  replies  the  colonel,  gravely.  "Quite  true. 
Quite  as  true,  at  least,  as  everything  else  which  they  say." 

'Uncle  Charlie,  you  positively  frighten  me!"  Mrs.  Fane 
looks  prepared  to  take  him  au  grand  serieux.  Colonel  Dallas 
sips  his  tea  and  eats  his  muffin  with  provoking  deliberation, 
whilst  his  niece  scans  him  with  anxiety.  It  is  not  an  entirely 
unheard  of  occurrence  for  a  gentleman  of  his  age  to  make  a 
'Uiance. 

"  Don't  tease  me!''  continues  Herniione,  beginning  to  smite. 
44  Tell  me  the  worst  at  once." 

"  My  dear,"  observes  the  colonel,  holding  out  his  cup  for 
more  tea,  "it  is  very  disrespectful  of  you  to  think  your  unclean 
old  fool." 

"Oh,  as  for  that,"  says  Mrs.  Fane,  looking  relieved,  "  love 
makes  a  fool  of  ever}' body." 

"  Except  of  you.': 

"  Except  of  nie,"  she  answers,  gayly.  "  But  now,  come, 
you  shall  have  no  more  tea,  nor  muffins."  playfully  snatching 
the  plate  from  him,  "until  you  have  spoken  out.  -  Who  is  sher 
where  does  she  come  from?  ho**  did  vou  meet  her?  etc.,  etc. 

*t€." 

"•  Who  is  she?    She  is  Mrs.  Brandon." 
44  Then  it  is  tvn--  absjut  the  shop  ?" 


/  -U:*VE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  71 

"  No — not  even  though  her  name  is  Brandon." 

"  And  is  she  a  Mrs.  :" 

"  She  is  very  much  a  Mrs.  She  adores  her  husband,  and  he  is 
devoted  to  her.'' 

"Oh,  Uncle  Charlie,  and  are  you  going  to  be  tlie  Mephisto  to 
come  in  and  interfere  with  all  this  adoration  V" 

<4 1  trust  not,"  answers  the  colonel,  devoutly,  as  a  secret  qualm 
comes  over  him  whether  indirectly  he  may  not  be  helping. to 
bring  about  such  a  result. 

"  She  is  a  clergyman's  daughter — married  to  a  very  good  fel- 
low whom  I  have  known  from  a  boy,  but  at  present  she  doesn't 
know  any  one  of  the  right  sort,  and  I  want  you,  Hermy,  to  stand 
sponsor  for  her.'' 

"  My  dear  Uncle  Charlie!"  cries  Mrs.  Fane,  dismayed,  "  don't 
ask  me  to  bring  out  a  new  beauty!  Oh,  if  you  knew  what  a  bore 
-it  is  to  go  about  with  these  woman, and  to  be  mobbed,  and  made 
a  show  of,  and  to  do  a  sort  of  sheep-dog  business!  It  is  so  much 
pleasanter  to  be  on  one's  own  account.  I  don't  care  for  reflected 
luster  myself." 

"  My  dear  girl."  cries  the  colonel,  warmly,  4<  I  don't  want  you 
to  do  anything  to  put  yourself  to  inconvenience.  All  I  want 
is  to  get  you  to  come  and  call  on  her  with  me,  and  ask  her  to 
luncheon.  When  once  you  have  seen  her,  I  know  you  will  like 
her."  " 

"  No,  Uncle  Charlie,'*  replies  Hermione,  shaking  her  head, 
"  that  would  be  impossible.  No  woman  ever  yet  liked  another 
woman  that  a  man  wanted  her  to  like.  Still,  for  your  sake — by 
the  way,  what  on  earth  is  vour  motive  ?  If  she  is  so  lovely  and 
delightful,  why  don't  you  keep  her  to  yourself  V" 

11  Because  I  am  like  my  sex,  unselfish,"  smiles  the  .colonel. 

"  Say  becaase  you're  unlike  your  sex,  my  dear,"  retorts  Ins 
niece.  **  Well,  yes,  I'll  go,  certainly.  Not  to-morrow,  because 
1  have  to  drive  Lady  W.,  nor  the  next  day,  because  of  the 
Fancy  Fair,  nor  Saturday,  because  I'm  going  to  see  Gerard  play 
polo:  Sunday,  of  course,  I  can't,  and  Monday  I  must  devote 
to " 

The  colonel's  face  falls,  and  Mrs.  Fane  observing  this,  breaks 
ofV.  and  says: 

M  Very  well,  I'll  go  on  Monday.  Come  and  lunch  first,  and 
then  we  will  drive  off  to — where  is  it  V  Highgate — Hampstead — 
Islington  ?" 

"  It's  rather  more  than  a  mile  from  your  door,  my  dear.  By 
the  way,  why  do  you  fashionable  ladies  always  pretend  that  a 
place  you  don't  want  to  go  to  is  such  a  long  way  off  ?" 

"  Very  \vel?,  Monday,  then.  And  I  am  to  ask  her  to  lunch,  and 
to~get  some  people  to  meet  her.  If-she  doesn't  go  out  much,  I 
suppose  any  day  will  suit  her  V" 

'"'Any  day,"  responds  the  colonel,  warmly.  "Thank  you, 
my  dear.  Good-bye!"  And  after  kissing  his  niece,  Colonel 
Dallas  departs  well  pleased,  whilst  Hermione  wishes  Mrs.  Bran* 
don  at  Coventry,  or  some  place  a  good  deal  further  off  than 
BiyanetOB  Square, 


72  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

CONTRARY  to  all  precedent,  Mrs.  Fane  took  a  violent  fancy  t3 
Vanessa  the  moment  she  set  eyes  on  her;  declared  her  to  be 
perfectly  lovely  and  charming,  and  insisted  at  once  on  fixing  a 
day  for  the  luncheon  party,  Vanessa,  on  her  part,  had  a  diffi- 
culty* in  finding  words  to  express  how  pretty,'  how  sweet,  how 
altogether  delightful  she  found  Mrs.  Fane.  The  colonel  was  en- 
chanted. 

'*  Now  who  shall  I  have  to  meet  her?"  said  Hermione, 
thoughtfully,  as  they  drove  away  from  the  door.  "  I  must  get 
two  or  three  nice  women,  who  may  be  useful  to  her  and  won't 
be  jealous,  and*' — laughing—'*!  must  not  have  any  seductive 
young  men  on  your  account,  to  say  nothing  of  the  poor  hus- 
band's/' 

"  She  is  too  fond  of  her  husband  to  care  about  seductive  young 
men,"  replied  the  colonel. 

*'  Perhaps  she  has  never  seen  any,"  remarked  Hermione,  skep- 
tically. "  I  shall  ask  Mildred,  and  then,  of  course,  if  she  comas, 
Gerard  will.  If  he  were  not  so  infatuated  about  her,  he  would 
be  sure  to  fall  in  love  with  the  new  beauty,  but  I  think  he 
is  quite  safe.  What  lovely  eyes!  they  seem  to  float  in  some 
heavenly  liquid!  And  what  a  wonderful  color  they  are!  You 
really  are  a  very  good  judge,  my  dear  uncle.  And  she  is 
not  the  least  conscious  nor  affected,  I  hope  she  won't  get 
spoilt.'' 

As  Vanessa  is  a  little  bit  nervous  about  her  debut,  it  is  ar- 
ranged that  tfie  colonel  shall  call  for  her  and  accompany  her  to 
Mrs.  Fane's  -house  in  Grosvenor  Place.  When  he  arrives  in 
Bryanston  Square,  the  victoria  is  already  at  the  door,  and  Va- 
nessa is  walking  up  and  down  the  drawing-room  in  a  highly 
nervous  state,  waiting  for  him.  Excitement  has  given  a,  beauti- 
ful little  flush  to  her  creamy  skin— the  colonel  is  delighted  to 
find  her  looking  handsomer  than  ever.  She  wears  a  very  fresh, 
white  toilet;  excellent  and  critical  as  is  his  taste,  he  finds  noth- 
ing to  be  improved  or  to  alter  in  it. 

He  does  not  seem  at  all  in  a  hurry  to  start,  but  takes  a  chair, 
and  begins  to  chat. 

"  Shall  we  not  be  late  ?"  asks  Vanessa  at  last,  having  cast  sev- 
eral meaning  glances  at  the  clock. 

"  Lots  of  time,"  he  replies.  " People  generally  stop  out  in  the 
park  until  after  two/' 

He  has  an  object  in  being  a  little  late  to-day,  though  he  is 
habitually  the  most  punctual  of  men.  But  he  knows  that  a 
pretty  woman  creates  a  greater  impression  by  entering  a  room 
than  by  being  found  seated  there.  After  all,  though  it  is  ten 
minutes  past  two  when  they  arrive,  there  are  only  three  persons 
assembled;  the  hostess,  another  lady,  and  a  very  handsome 
young  man, 

"This  is  t1  ">  head  of  the  house,"  says  the  colonel,  smilingly 
taking  his  ii^miew  by  the  arm  after  Vanessa  has  been  presented 


/    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  73 

by  Mrs.  Fane  to  Lady  Mildred  Belair.     "Mrs.  Brandon,  let  me 
introduce  Lord  Ravenhold  to  you.     Gerard,  Mrs.  Brandon." 

He  takes  her  Hand;  gives  her  the  frank,  admiring  glance 
which  men  are  wont  to  bestow  on  beauty,  and  says  how  glad  he 
is  to  have  the  pleasure  of  making  her  acquaintance.  Then  Mrs. 
Fane  monopolizes  her,  and  Lord  Ravenhold  returns  to  the  sofa 
beside  Lady  Mildred.  The  other  guests  drop  in  one  by  one  — 
they  do  not  seem  to  pair  until  they  get  inside  and  luncheon  h 
announced.  Vanessa  finds  herself  between  Lord  Ravenhold, 
who  sits  at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  and  Colonel  Dallas.  The 
'colonel  is  too  hungry  to  talk.  Lord  Ravenhold  divides  his  at- 
tention equally  between  his -lunch  and  Lady  Mildred,  arid  Va- 
nessa lias  time  to  look  about  her  and  take  observations.  There  is 
not  the  tenth  part  of  the  luxury  and  ostentation  here  that  she 
has  seen  in  the  houses  of  city  magnates — everything  is  elegant, 
yet  comparatively  simple;  there  is  not  an  atom  of  gene ;  not  a 
trace  of  ';  company  manners;"  every  one  is  spontaneous,  natural, 
perfectly  at  home — there  is  a  freedom  that  would  make  the 
under-jaw  of  Tyburnia  drop,  and  yet  it  is  unmistakably  better 
bred  than  the  stilted  affectation  of  politeness  of  people  not 
sufficiently  confident  in  themselves.  Perhaps  there  is  too  much 
license  in  the  manners  of  the  society  of  the  day:  perhaps  an  as- 
sumption of  coarseness,  slanginess,  incorrectness  of  speech;  but 
it  has  its  own  cachet,  and  is  as  different  from  ordinary  vulgarity 
as  French  wit  is  from  English.  Vanessa  could  not  observe  the 
rest  of  the  company  as  minutely  as  she  would  have  liked  for  the 
reason  that  a  good  many  curious  and  admiring  eyes  were  turned 
her  way,  and  later,  the  colonel,  having  appeased  his  appetite, 
began  to  talk  to  her.  Once  now  and  then  Lord  Ravenhold 
turned  and  spoke  a  few  courteous  words,  but  it  was  evident  that 
his  thoughts  were  centered  on  his  right-hand  neighbor.  When 
the  ladies  repaired  to  the  drawing-room,.  I^ady  Mildred  came  and 
chatted  pleasantly  to  Vanessa;  she  was  in  high  good  humor; 
perhaps  because,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Brandon's  loveliness,  Gerard 
Ravenhold  had  showed  no  symptoms  of  a  failing  allegiance  to 
herself.  When  the  men  joined  them,  the  colonel  brought  up  a 
very  good-looking  young  fellow,  whom  he  introduced  as  Mr. 
,  Algernon  Howard. 

"May  I  come  and  talk  to  you?"  says  the  latter,  dropping 
gently  into  the  seat  beside  her  as  if  he  had  known  her  all  his  life. 
"I've  heard  so  much  about  you.  And  I  hope  you  know  a' 
little  afyout  me." 

Vanessa  looks  at  him  with  interest.  This  is  Edith's  "Algy" 
about  whom  she  has  receive*'  so  many  heartrending  confi- 
dences. 

'•  Oh,  yes,"  she  answers.     "  I  have  often  heard  of  you." 

"And  you  sympathize  with  me,  doift  you:'  he  says,  confi- 
dentially, bringing  his  good-looking  young  face  close  to  hers, 
"I  know  you  do — you  believe  ia  love.  You  married  for  love — 
you  wouldn't  have  old  Sir  Bertram.  Quite  right,  I  admire  you 
for  it!  "What  a  thundering  old  brute  he  is!" 

For  a  moment  Vanessa  is  a  little  bit  taken  aback  at  finding 
these  state  secrets  spoken  of  so  lightly  and  familiarly  by  a  stran- 


74  JL     HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVKD 

ger;  but  soon  the  ease  of  her  interlocutor's  manner  comn-mni 
cates  itself  to  her.  and  she  finds  herself  talking  as  naturally  fcj 
him  as  though  they  had  been  children  together. 

"Don't  think  me  impertinent,"  murmurs  Algy,  '•  for  talking 
about  your  affairs — of  course,  Edie  tells  me  everything,  and  I 
know  she  tells  you  everything,  so  there  ought  to  be  a  bond  of 
union  between  us,  oughtn't  there  ?" 

-  "  Yes."  says  Vanessa,  smiling.  What  a  good-looking  lad  he 
is!  she  can  understand  Edith's  repugnance  to  the  rich  lover.  "  T 
am  so  sorry  I  never  see  her  and  Mab  now,"  she  continues.  "  At 
least,  I  see  them — I  meet  them  often  in  the  Row,  but  I  look  the 
other  way,  because  I  know  they  are  not  allowed  to  look  at  or 
speak  to  me." 

"  What  an  infernal  shame!  It  is  all  that  old  brute.  I  say, 
Mrs.  Brandon,  I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  saying  so,  but  I'm  so 
awfully  glad  you  didn't  have  him.  Of  course  Edie  has  told  me 
all  about  you,  and  how  beautiful  you  were,  but  I  suppose  word  a 
are  poor,  as  they  say,  sometimes." 

Mr.  Howard  makes  his  speech  in  such  a  modest  deprecating 
manner  that  Vanessa  does  not  even  feel  embarrassed,  But  then 
a  genuine  compliment  is  seldom  embarrassing. 

**  Have  you  seen  Edith  lately  ?"  she  asks. 

'k  I  met  her  at  a  ball  last  night,"  he  answers,  eager  to  talk 
about  his  own  affairs,  as  young  men  in  love  are  prone  to  be.  '*  I 
only  got  one  dance  with  her,  but  we  did  manage  to  hide  for  tov. 
minutes  behind  a  pillar  and  dodge  her  old  mother.  She's  a  regu- 
lar mercenary  old  dev— old  lady,  she  is.  They're  worrying  my 
poor  little  girl  out  of  her  life  to  have  that  fellow  Chatham.  He 
isn't  a  bad  sort  of  fellow,  and  he's  got  lots  of  money,  but  Edie 
don't  care  for  that,  thank  God!  She's  as  true  as  steel — she  swears 
she'll  stick  to  me,  and  I  know  she  will.  After  all,  money  isn't 
everything,  is  it,  Mrs.  Brandon  ?  It's  awfully  jolly  to  have  it, 
but  what's  the  good  of  it  if  you're  tied  to  some  one  you  loathe. 
There's  an  heiress  my  people  are  trying  to  cram  down  nay-throat, 
but  I'll  see  her  blessed  first.  I  wouldn't  a  bit  mind  being  poor  if 
I  could  have  Edie,  and  she  doesn't  mind.  I'm  not  an  extrav- 
agant fellow,  only,  don't  you  know,  one  must  do  what  other 
fellows  do.  I'm  trying  not  to  smoke  so  many  cigarettes,  and  I 
only  drink  whisky  and  soda — at  my  own  expense,  I  mean." 

Algy  finds  so  interested  a  listener  in  ^Vanessa  that  he  continues 
to  pour  out  his  confessions — it  is  charming  to  confide  in.  a  beau* 
tiful  and  sympathetic  woman.  Seeing  the  pair  so  engrossed 
with  each  other,  the  colonel  feels  a  little  bit  uneasy.  He  is  not 
in  the  secret  of  Mr.  Howard's  love-affair,  and  the  lad  appears  so 
impassioned  and  Vanessa  so  eagerly  attentive,  that  the  outside 
world  might  well  imagine  them  to  be  carrying  on  a  little  flirta- 
tion en  their  own  account. 

'•Do  I  bore  you?"  says  Algy,  presently,  fixing  his  blue  eyes 
earnestly  on  Mrs.  Brandon's  face. 

"  No,  no,"  cries  Vanessa,  '  it  interests  me  beyond  everything. 
What  is  there  in  this  world  worth  having  in  comparison  wita 
love?"  , 


LIVED    AND    LOITED.  75 

In  spite  of  his  passion  for  Edith,  Algy  cannot  help  being  im- 
pressed by  the  charms  of  his  companion. 

"•What  an  aw — awfully  "  (he  has  a  slight  stammer)  "  lucky 
chap  Brandon  must  be!"  he  remarks  with  enthusiasm.  "  You're 
not  like  other  pretty  women — do  you  know.  Mrs.  Brandon, 
nearly  all  pretty  women  are  mercenary/' 

"  Are  they  V"  says  Vanessa,  smiling. 

He  is  such  a  boy,  so  good-looking,  so  natural,  that  nothing  he 
jays  seems  to  come  amiss.  After  all,  everything  depends  so 
much  more  on  the  manner  than  the  words. 

"You  do  think  Edie  cares  for  me,  don't  you?"  he  resumes, 
harping  back  to  the  beloved  theme. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  returns  Vanessa,  with  immense  emphasis. 

The  party  is  beginning  to  disperse — now  there  is  only  the 
Colonel  left,  talking  to  Mrs.  Fane,  and  Lord  Ravenhold  and  Lady 
Mildred  whispering  in  a  corner. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  be  going,"  says  HJrs.  Brandon,  who  has  just 
caught  the  colonel's  eye  for  the  second  time. 

"Must  you  ?  What  a  bore!  I  should  like  to  go  on  talking  to 
you  for  hours.  When  shall  I  see  you  again  ?  May  I  come  and 
call?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  do,"  she  answers,  a  little  bit  embarrassed,  being  not 
yet  woman  of  fashion  enough  to  think  it  a  matter  of  course 
that  young  men  should  call  upon  her  in  her  husband's  absence. 

"  What  is  the  best  time  to  find  you  ?"  he  asks,  confidently  ex- 
pecting to  be  asked  t<  luncheon. 

"My  husband  generally  comes  home  about  five,"  she  says, 
**  but  then  we  o  drive  out  after  that  " 

Mr.  Howard  i  little  bit  nonplussed.  He  has  no  idea  of  call- 
ing when  Mr.  Brandon  is  i*t  home.  Three  is  a  very  objection- 
able number,  and  you  can't  confide  in  a  woman  in  the  presence 
of  her  husband.  He  does  not,  however,  lose  his  presence  of 
mind. 

"  Thanks,  I'll  come,"  he  says  as  she  is  rising,  "  and  I  dare  say, 
I  shall  see  you  in  the  Row  one  of  these  mornings." 

"After  all,  I  have  not  had  a  chat  with  you,''  exclaims  Mr. 
Fane  at  parting,  "  and  I  really  must.  If  I  look  in  upon  you 
to-morrow  -at  six,  will  you  give  me  some  tea,  and  then  we  can 
have  a  nice  little  talk  all  to  ourselves  ?" 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  answers  Vanessa. 

"You.  are  not  to  come  and  interrupt  our  tete-a-tete,  Uncle 
Charlie,"  and*Mrs.  Fane  turns  to  the  colonel. 

"  Certainly  not,  my  dear.  Have  you  ever  known  me  indis- 
creet ?" 

"Never — never  in  my  life!  To-morrow,  then,"  shaking 
Vanessa's  hand  in  a  very  friendly  manner. 

Lord  Ravenhold  and  Lady  Mildred  have  also  risen  to  speed  the 
parting  guest. 

"  May  1  come  and  see  you-?"  says  her  ladyship,  who  has  been 
asked  by  Ravehold's  sister  to  be  civil  to  the  new  beauty,  and 
Vanessa  expresses  her  pleasure  at  the  proposal  very  prettily. 

"She  is  quite  lovely,"  observes  Lady  Mildred,  as  the  door 
tloses  ui>™  TMVs.  Brandon. 


7$  i    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED: 

11  Is  she?"  says  Ravenhold,  looking  fixedly  at  her  ladyship, 
He  has  very  eloquent  eyes,  and  they  say  distinctly,  "  I  do  not 
see  any  one  but  you." 

Lady  Mildred  smiles  and  feels  benevolently  disposed  toward 
Mrs.  Brandon  and  the  rest  of  the  world.  Meanwhile,  the  colo- 
nel is  putting  Vanessa  into  her  carriage. 

"I  will  say  good-bye,"  he  says.  "You  have  seen  enough  of 
me  for  to-day." 

"  No,  no,  I  have  not,"  she  answers,  eagerly;  "  I  want  to-  talk 
to  you  about  it  all.  Do  come  with  me." 

So  he  takes  his  place  beside  her. 

'•It  has  been  delightful,"  she  exclaims,  as  they  drive  away. 
"  I  can't  tell  you  hew  I  have  enjoyed  it,  How  nice  everybody 
was.  and  how  kindr 

"'  Mr.  Howard  seemed  to  be  very  nice  and  kind,"  observes  the 
colon  i-1,  and  Vanessa  detects  ,9,  slightly  injured  tone  in  his  voice. 

'•  He  is  in  loA~e  with  Edith— Edith  Vaughan — do  you  not  know? 
I  have  told  you.  He  was  talking  about  hev  the  whole  time — he 
is  so  dreadfully  in  love  with  her  and  so  unhappy." 

44  Oh,  then,  it  was  vicarious  ?"  remarks  the  colonel,  looking  re- 
lieved. 

•'What  do  you  mean?  Vicarious?"  asks  Vanessa,  fixing  her 
eyes  on  him;  but  the  colonel  declines  to  enter  into  explanations, 
and  changes  the  subject. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Ravenhold  ?" 

"  He  is  very,  very  handsome.     And  he  seems  devoted  to  Lady  " 
Mildred.     Is  he  going  to  marry  her  ?" 

"  My  dear  child,  what  are  you  talking  about  ?  She  has  a  hus** 
band  already." 

Vanessa  blushes  crimson,  whilst  a  positively  awe-struck  ex* 
pression  comes  into  her  face. 

Tfce  colonel  feels  embarrassed. 

"  They  are  very  great  friends — very  old  friends,"  he  says,  hur- 
riedly. 

"  Mr.  Fane  was  not  there?"  remarks  Vanessa,  after  a  pause* 
Her  tone  is  interrogative. 

4  He  is  very  seldom  in  town." 

"  What  is  he  like  ?    Is  he  nice  ?" 

"He  is  a  lout,"  answers  the  colonel,  with  contemptuous  dis- 
gust. 

4i  I  am  sorry,"  exclaims  Vanessa,  sincerely.  "  She  is  so  charm- 
ing. Is  she — unhappy  ?" 

"She  manages  to  get  along.  After  all,  that  is  about  all  the 
most  of  us  can  do." 

Vanessa  is  not  accustomed  to  this  pessimist  strain  from  her 
friend — she  looks  rather  unhappy.  He,  observing  it,  lays  hia 
hand  lightly  upon  her,  and  says: 

"  I  am  a  dyspeptic  old  person.  I  ought  not  to  have  eaten  that 
foie  gras  at  luncheon.  It  never  agrees  with  me.  I  know  it,  and 
yet  I  can't  resist  it.  But  you,  my  dear — may  your  path  be 
always  strewn  with  roses!  You  have  a  good  husband,  and  you 
love"  him — after  all,  that  is  a  very  great  slice  of  good  fortune  foi 
one  of  us  poor  mortals," 


t    HAYS    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  7? 

"  Indeed  it  is,"  responds  Vanessa,  brightly.  "  See,"  shs  cries, 
in  delighted  accents,  "  there  he  is  just  going  up  the  steps.  You 
can't  think,  darling  "  (this  to  Brandon  as  the  carriage  stops  and 
he  helps  her  out),  "  what  a  delightful  morning  I  have  had." 

Whether  it  is  thefoie  gras  or  the  sight  of  too  much  happiness 
that  disagrees  with  the  colonel,  he  declines  to  enter  the  house, 
*nd,  after  bidding  the  pair  a  friendly  adieu,  strolls  off  toward 
his  club.  . 

"I  suppose  the  ice  is  broken,"  he  soliloquizes.  '.'Ah!  she'll 
eee  and  hear  some  things  now  to  astonish  her.  But  she  will  soon 
get  used  to  it.  I'm  very  glad  Ravenhold  is  so  taken  up  with 
that  woman.  If  he  had  not  been,  he  would  have  made  love  to 
her  as  sure  as, — fate." 

It  is  well  that  the  future  is  shrouded  from  our  eyes,  otherwise 
the  colonel's  musings  would  have  been  of  a  less  self-gratulatory 
character  as  he  walked  clubward. 

•  .»  « 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

VISCOUNT  RAVENHOLD  was  a  very  handsome  young  man  in- 
deed, and  particularly  attractive  in  the  eyes  of  the  fair,  to  whom 
he  was  quite  devoted.  He  was  a  keen  sportsman,  and  some- 
thing of  an  athlete;«but  there  is  no  doubt  that  his  favorite  dis- 
traction was  filer  le  parfait  amour :  he  was  one  of~the  few  men 
who  would  have  stayed  away  willingly  from  a  hunt  or  a  shoot 
at  the  request  of  a  woman  with  whom  he  was  in  love.  He  was 
devoured  by  chronic  heart-hunger — the  object  of  his  passion 
might  change  (did.  in  fact,  not  unfrequently),  but  the  desire  to 
love  always  remained.  He  denied  strenuously  that  he  was  fickle 
or  unfaithful,  and  swore  that  he  should  be  the  most  faithful  lover 
created  if 

There  were  always  ifs  which*  stepped  in  -and  interfered  with 
his  fidelity — the  most  common  if  was  if  he  could  find  the  right 
woman.  Then  he  so  often  thought  that  he  had  found  her,  but 
after  a  time  she  disappointed  him.  It  was  always  her  fault,  but, 
nothing  daunted,  he  renewed  his  researches. 

His  grandfather,  the  late  lord,  had  been  endowed  with  the 
same  affectionate  nature,  and  the  indulgence  of  it  had  led  him 
into  so  many  imprudences  that  he  had  got  to  be  considered  a 
very  wicked  old  man  indeed.  In  half  a  century,  a  man  who  is 
perpetually  in  love  and  is  prevented  from  being  so  legitimately 
by  the  ties  which  he  has  primarily  contracted,  must  inevitably 
get  himself  into  considerable  discredit  with  society,  which, 
whatever  it  may  know  and  put  up  with  in  secret,  insists  on  a  de- 
cent face  being  shown  to  it.  The  old  lord  declined  to  present  a 
decent  face — he  outraged  the  world's  opinion  over  and  O¥er  again 
in  that  one  particular;  ancj.  so  in  time  it  ostracized  him,  for 
which  he,  however,  cared  nothing.  He  was  a  gentleman  and  a 
man  of  honor  jn  every  respect,  except  where  a  woman  was  con- 
ce'rnecl;  the  moment  that  a  petticoat  stepped  in,  honor,  con- 
science, prudence,  were  dispersed  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven. 
He  had  been  very  successful  in  his  loves — because,  added  to  good 
locks  f  u  1  charm  of  manner,  he  had  an  indomitable  wiflTwrnch 


78  /    HAVE    LIVED     AND    LOVED, 

always  led  him  on  to  gratify  his  passions,  though  it  never  helped 
him  to  restrain  them.  He  begrudged  nothing  in  the  world  to 
the  woman  he  was  in  love  with  for  the  time,  and  was  the  most 
devoted  and  passionate  of  worshipers.  Like  Henry  VIII., 
would  fain  have  crowned  each  new  love  at  the  expense  of  her 
predecessor.  In  his  time  he  had  married  three  wives,  all  for 
love,  and  had  come  to  hate  each  of  them  with  extraordinary 
vindictiveness.  His  eldest  son  he  detested  for  no  better  reason 
than  because  he  was  to  inherit  the  good  things  his  father  could 
not  carry  away  with  him,  but  the  heir  died  first.  He  liked  his 
grandson  little  better,  and  the  only  member  of  the  family  who 
found  favor  in  his  eyes  was  his  granddaughter,  Hermione  Dal- 
las, known  to  us  as "  Mrs.  Fane.  She  was  high-spirited  and  full 
of  fun — she  amused  him  and  was  not  afraid  of  him  as  most 
people  were.  She  was  seventeen  and  her  brother  twenty  when 
the  old  lord  was  gathered  to  his  fathers. 

Up  to  the  present  time  no  open  esdandre  had  tarnished  the 
young  peer's  escutcheon — he  had  been  within  an  ace  of  getting 
into  trouble  more  than  once,  but  only  within  an  ace.  He  was 
very  good-natured,  very  popular — a  much  more  genial  compan- 
ion than  his  grandfather;  and,  if  he  inherited  those  amorous 
proclivities  from  his  ancestor,  how  far  was  he  to  blame  ?  How 
far  are  any  of  us  to  blame  for  failings  or  attributes  that  we  dis- 
tinctly inherit  ?  But  it  would  be  futile  to  stop  and  try  to  ar- 
range this  moral  fifteen  puzzle.  I  present  him  t©  you  as  he  is — 
a  very  good-looking,  charming-mannered  young  fellow,  with  ail 
extremely  inflammable  heart;  a  man  very  dangerous  to  the 
peace  of  mind  of  beautiful  young  ladies  going  about  the  world 
with  a  tendency  to  the^same  disorder.  It  was  not,  therefore, 
without  reason  that  Colonel  Dallas  congratulated  himself  upon 
his  nephew's  wandering  affections  being  chained  for  the  mo- 
ment, although  he  was  confident  in  Vanessa's  virtuous  princi- 
ples, to  say  nothing  of  her  love  for  her  husband. 

"  He  is  a  dear  good  fellow,"  the  colonel  had  been  heard  to  re- 
mark, "a  much  better  fellow  than  ever  my  poor  father  was; 
but  he  is  devilish  like  him  in  some  ways — devilish  like!"  and 
what  those  ways  were,  his  interlocutor  had  no  occasion  to  in- 
quire. Ever}'  one  of  the  past  generation  knew  what  the  old  lord 
had  been.  The  rising  generation  would  have  found  it  quite  im- 
possible to  be  interested  in  what  any  dead  old  man  had  done, 
however  handsome  or  fascinating  tradition  might  report  him  to 
have  been.  "  Faugh!  how  disgusting  to  think  of  old  people 
ever  having  been  in  love!"  they  would  say. 

Mrs.  Fane  took  such  an  immense  fancy  to  Vanessa  that,  in 
spite  of  the  whirl  of  gayety  in  which  she  lived,  she  found  time 
to  see  a  good  deal  of  her.  And  Vanessa,  who  was  not.  like 
Hermione,  rich  in  friends,  became  still  more  attached  to  the  gay, 
pretty,  butterfly-like  little  lady — even  the  colonel  had  to  sink 
into  a  second  place. 

Thanks  to  Mrs.  Fane,  Vanessa  began  to  have  a* circle  of  fash- 
ionable acquaintances,  and  was  invited  to  several  balls.  No 
debutante  ever  rushed  into  gayety  with  more  wild-delight  than 
Vanessa,  who  all  her  life  had  longed  for  pleasure.  Dancing  be* 


1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED  79 

came  a  passion  with  her — she  had  received  this  branch  of  her 
education  from  Edith  and  Mabel,  and  was  more  than  proficient 
in  it.  Society  was  a  word  almost  synonymous  with  heaven  to 
the  vicar's  lovely  daughter.  True,  she  saw  a  great  deal  that  sur- 
prised and  even  shocked  her;  she  heard  things  in  the  beau 
monde  that  made  her  cheeks  blush  and  her  ears  tingle;  but  one 
gets  accustomed  to  everything.  Scores  of  good-looking  young 
men  tried  to  make  love  to  her;  but  she  was  utterly  impervious  to 
their  best  efforts,  as  a  woman  who  has  a  real  and  honest  love  for 
one  man  is  to  the  advances  of  others.  She  treated  their  fine 
speeches,  their  languorous  or  impassioned  airs  with  a  gay  ridicule 
which,  however,  had  nothing  in  it  to  wound  their  amour  propre, 
and  seeing  she  was  hopeless  for  the  present,  as  they  said,  they 
danced  with,  flattered,  and  paid  court  to  her,  but  took  their  seri- 
ous intentions  elsewhere.  Mr.  Brandon  was  always  invited 
with  his  wife:  to  evening  parties,  at  all  events;  and,  at  first,  he 
frequently  accompanied  her,  and  was  immensely  and  honestly 
proud  of  her  success.  His  eyes  beamed  with  genuine  pleasure  at 
Jier  pleasure,  and  he  made  a  martyr  of  himself  with  the  best 
grace  in  the  world.  No  pang  of  jealousy  crossed  his  honest 
heart — when  she  returned  to  his  side,  there  was  always  a  soft, 
affectionate  look  in  her  eyes,  which  never  shone  there  for  any 
one  else.  Late  hours  and  standing  about,  with  no  particular 
amusement  except  watching  his  beautiful  wife,  began  to  pali 
upon  him  a  little  after  a  time,  and  Vanessa  had  rather  remorse- 
ful scruples  about  inflicting  such  frequent  penance  upon  him. 
So,  occasionally,  to  spare  him,  she  went  with  Mrs.  Fane,  and  ha 
was  perfectly  satisfied  and  contented  with  this  arrangement, 
and  congratulated  himself  upon  being  able  to  seek  his  pillow  at 
the  hour  when  the  uneasy  searchers  for  pleasure  are  beginning 
their  nightly  toil. 

Vanessa  did  not  become  a  fashionable  lady  and  lie  in  bed  until 
midday  to  recruit  her  shattered  forces,  but  appeared  bright  and 
smiling  at  the  breakfast-table,  declaring,  in  spite  of  her  hus- 
band's affectionate  remonstrances,  that  the  later  she  went  to 
bed  the  earlier  she  felt  inclined  to  rise.  Nor  did  she  grow  pale 
and  waxen;  being  thoroughly  healthy,  and  having  lived  a  quiet 
life,  the  change  and  excitement  rather  did  her  good  than  other- 
wise, and  Brandon  had  no  cause  for  uneasiness  as  to  the  effects 
of  her  dissipation.  And  as  they  were  to  spend  August  and  Sep- 
tember at  the  Vicarage,  if  she  should  by  chance  lose  any  of  her 
lilies  and  roses  meantime,  she,  would  have  plenty  of  leisure  to 
grow  them  again  there. 

I  am  disposed  to  think  that  her  first  season  in  London  was 
quite  the  happiest  period  of  Vanessa's  life,  for  who  can  call  pas- 
sionate joys  alternated  by  fever  of  unrest  and  agonies  of  doubt, 
happiness"?  She  loved  her  husband  with  devoted  affection  in 
spite  of  the  young  Romeos  and  Lotharios  wlib  fluttered  about 
her,  and  felt  no  desire  to  exchange  him  for  any  oneof  them.  And 
Brandon,  who  was  not  at  all  the  sort  of  man  to  gc  out  of  his 
way  to  suspect  or  doubt,  was  tranquilly  and  happily  contented, 
and  had  not  a  shadow  of  fear  for  the  present  or  the  future.  The 
eeruples  which  had  afflicted  him  last  year  had  taken  wings,  arid 


80  r'HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

a  happy,  unclouded  security  dwelt  in  his  breast.  The  sight  of 
Captain  Lovelace's  languishing  glances,  01*  Lord  Juan's  arm  en- 
circling his  wife's  waist  in  the  waltz  caused  no  Othello-like  sen- 
sation in  his  heart — she  was  happy  and  amused — ergo,  he  was 
the  same. 

Although  Vanessa  was  frequently  at  Mrs.  Fane's  house,  she 
rarely  "encountered  Lord  Ravenhold  there.  In  fact,  his  friends 
saw  very  little  of  him  unless  they  happened  to  be  in  company 
with  Lady  Mildred  Belair.  Mrs.  Fane  spoke  of  him  sometimes, 
and  lightly  expressed  a  hope  that  he  woujd  not  get  himself  into 
trouble,  and  Vanessa,  not  knowing  what  to  say,  feeling  that  it 
was  very  terrible  and  shocking  for  a  man  to  be  in  love  with  a 
married  woman,  yet  not  wishing  to  express  disapprobation  of 
a  brother  to  his  sister,  generally  took  refuge  in  silence. 

Mrs.  Fane  interpreted  her  friend's  silence  quite  correctly- 
more  than  .that,  she  respected  her  virtuous  and  innocent  ideas, 
as  she  called  them.  Once  only  she  said,  turning  very  sharply 
and  suddenly  to  Vanessa: 

"  My  dear,  you  are  a  very  happy  woman— you  have  an  excel- 
lent husband  whom  you  adore  and  who  adores  you.  But  sup- 
pose now^,  you  were  married  to  a  brute  whom  you  could  not 
help  despising  and  who  detested  you  and  outraged  your  feelings, 
should  you  think  it  dreadfully  wicked  to  like  any  one  else  ?" 

"  But  I  should  never  have  married  him,"  answered  Vanesa, 
.gravely,  opening  her  eyes  a  little  wider  than  usual. 

Whereupon  Mrs.  Fane  dashed  up  impetuously  from  her  seat, 
and,  flying  to  the  piano,  began  to  play  a  wild  tarantella  with 
great  entrain.  From  that  she  broke  into  "Auld  Robin  Gray," 
sang  it  with  immense  pathos,  and  then,  rising,  she  went  gently 
toward  Vanessa  with  a  tear  in  her  eye  and  a  smile  on  her  lips, 
saying: 

"  I  wish  T  had  been  T)orn  a  country  mouse,  or  a  vicar's  daugh- 
ter. Then,  perhaps,  I  should  have  found  my  Darby.  I  should 
make  a  first  rate  Joan." 

At  this  juncture  a  visitor  was  announced.  ^ 

Hermione  Fane,  although  she  presented  such  a  sniffing  face 
to  the  world,  had  a  very  unpleasant  skeleton  in  her  cupboard. 
She  kept  him  fast  locked  upr,  and  though  the  world  tried  to  look 
through  the  keyhole  and  the  cracks,  and  listened  attentively  to 
hear  his  bones  rattle,  it  never  succeeded  in  having  ocular  or 
oral  demonstration  }f  him.  So  it  delivered  the  verdict  that  she 
was  a  thoroughly  mercenary  young  woman  without  a  grain  of 
heart.  The  skeleton,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  clothed  in  the 
fleshy  garb  of  a  somewhat  stout  and  coarse-featured  young 
man,  Giles  Fane  by  name,  who  was  the  husband  of  Hermione. 
Society  saw  but  little  of  him,  a  circumstance  which  it  did  not 
regret,  as  he  was  neither  agreeable  nor  amusing,  nor,  having  a 
•^ife,  eligible. 

There  was  only  one  person  in  the  world  who  cared  for  him  (or 
perhaps-  we  should  say  two»  but  of  the  second,  more  later),  his 
mother;  and  what  man  is  there  so  loutish,  so  odious,  so  intolera- 
ble that  a  tender  spot  does  not  dwell  for  hin-  >  Hs  mother's 


~  *    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  31 

breast?  Lady  Cornelia  Fane  doted  on  her  son,  but  at  r,he  same 
tim.e  he  was  her  despair.  She  was  a  lady  of  great  refinement, 
and  devoted  to  society — her  son  was  a  hopeless  lout,  who  ab- 
horred it.  No  tutor,  no  maternal  cares  find  admonitions,  had& 
ever  succeeded  in  licking  him  into  shape:  he  "loved  low  company, 
and  if  he  was  compelled  to  keep  any  other  made  himself  ex- 
ceedingly unpleasant  to  it.  People  said  it  was  very  strange,  as' 
his  father  had  been  a  man  of  great  culture — as  for  his  mother, 
she  was  thorough-bred  to  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  The  cause, 
however,  was  not  very  far  to  seek — only  a  generation  further 
back— though  the  facts  were  not  known  to  every  one.  Mr.  Giles 
Fane,  the  grandfather  of  the  present  man,  had  married  in  mid- 
dle life  a  lady  in  his  o\fn  position.  By  her  he  had  only  bne 
child,  a  daughter,  who,  in  due  time,  grew  up  and  married. 
Mrs.  Fane,  after  becoming  a  grandmother,  died;  and  for  some 
years  her  husband  mourned  her  loss.  As  he  was  verging  upon 
his  seventieth  year,  being  still  a  very  hale  old  gentleman,  he  be- 
came violently  enamored  of  a  buxom  young  woman,  a  daughter 
of  a  laborer  on  his  estate.  As  he  had  always  been  a  moral,  re- 
spectable, church-going  man,  there  was  only  one  course  open  to 
him,  which  was  to  marry  the  young  woman.  She  was  very 
happy  to  honor  him  with  her  hand,  and  we  may  imagine  the 
gnashing  of  teeth  of  4hs  daughter,  and  her  children,  who  had 
always  looked  upon  themselves  as  the  heirs  of  Mr.  Fane's  very 
fine  property. 

Within  a  reasonable  time  the  old  squire  became  the  father  of 
a  son,  but  his  happiness  at  this  event  was  sorely  damped  by  the 
conviction  which  had  been  forced  upon  him  that  his  wife  was  a 
very  low  and  vulgar  person  indeed,  and  entirely  unfit  to  make 
the  smallest  pretense  of  being  a  lady.  He,  himself,  from  being 
the  most  respected  man  in  the  county  had  fallen  into  disrepute 
since  his  foolish  marriage,  and  was  shunned  by  all  the  ladies  and 
looked  coldly  upon  as  an  old  fool  by  most  of  the  men.  Mrs. 
Fane  would  consort  with  the  housemaids,  and  was  on  the  most 
familiar  terms  with  the  grooms — she  ate  in  a  manner  that  re- 
volted her  husband,  and  had  many  little  manners  and  customs, 
natural  to  her  class,  but  eminently  shocking  to  a  refined  mind. 
The  culminating  point  was  reached  w^hen  one  day  the  squire, 
returning  unusually  early  from  hunting,  found  her  engaged  in 
a  game  of  romps  with  one  of  the  footmen.  Of  course  there  was 
no  more  actual  harm  in  this  than  there  would  be  in  Lady  Hilda 
having  a  bear-fight  with  Lord  Tom  Noddy  or  Sir  Carnaby  Jinks 
(a  diversion  much  in  vogue  at  the  present  time).  Mrs.  Fane  was 
even  less  well  connected  than  her  footman,  who  was  the  son  of 
a  small  farmer .  The  result,  however,  was  that  the  gentleman 
was  kicked  put  of  the  house,  and  the  lady  sent  after  him  in  less 
violent  fashion,  nor  was  she  ever  allowed  to  come  inside  its  doors 
again.  Her  child  was  then  six  months  old,  and  from  that  time 
the  one  object  of  the  squire's  life  was  to  bring  up  the  boy  among 
the  most  refined  influences,  so  that  no  taint  of  the  mother's  blood 
might  appear  in  him.  None  ever  did,  but  en  revanche  it  all 
came  out  in  his  son,  who,  from  earliest  childhood,  showed  an  in- 
veterate love  of  low  company,  and,  whenever^  he  got  the  chance- 


82  J    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

would  make  his  way  to  the  stables  or  the  keepers'  and  gardener^ 
cottages* 

)  When  he  was  nine  years  old  his  father  died,  and  he  literally 
became  his  own  master,  as  he  had  even  then  a  very  much 
stronger  will  than  his  mother.  He  was  sent  to  Eton,  but  they 
declined  to  have  his  company  there  after  ten  months'  idleness 
and  insubordination.  Left  to  himself  and  the  society  he  loved, 
he  was  a  good-natured  boor:  force  him  into  another  sphere  and 
ne  became  intolerable.  So  he  grew  up  to  man's  estate,  utterly 
declining  to  be  or  seem  a  gentleman — he  spent  his  time  in  shoot- 
ing, hunting,  ferreting,  rat- hunting;  his  friends  and  associates 
were  his  keepers  and  some  of  the  leasWespectable  of  his  tenants. 
He  would  not  have  the  county  men  at  the  Court  nor  any  of  the 
men  whom  his  mother  wished  to  invite  to  share  his  excellent 
shooting,  nor  would  he  even  conform  so  far  to  her  wishes  as  to 
play  host  to  the  smallest  party  or  to  wear  evening  dress.  As 
long  as  she  let  him  alone  he  was  fond  of  her  and  good-natured 
enough,  and  would  have  given  her  anything  he  had  in  the 
world,  but  no  longer.  Her  despair  culminated  when  she  heard 
that  he  had  a  low  entanglement,  and,  worse — much  worse — had 
promised  to  marry  the  girl.  She  fell  into  such  a  state  of  pas- 
sionate grief  that  even  Giles  was  touched,  and  consented  to  go 
abroad  with  her  for  two  or  three  months. 

There  they  met  Mrs.  Dallas  and  Hermione,  and,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  Giles  Fane  found  himself-  able  to  talk  to  and  be 
amused  by  a  young  lady.  His  mother  did  everything  in  her 
power  to  foster  his  prepossession,  Mrs.  Dallas  followed  suit,  and 
Hermione,  who  liked  pleasure,  and  whose  young  life  had  been 
considerably  hampered  by  the  want  of  money,  was  not  alto- 
gether averse  to  the  idea  of  marrying  a  rich  young  man.  She 
saw  only  the  best  side  of  him—  he  seemed  very  good-natured — 
she  fancied  that  she  would  be  able  to  turn  him  round  her  finger, 
and  Lady  Cornelia  made  the  very  best  of  him  and  persuaded 
Hermoine  that  he  was  devotedly  in  love  with  her,  but  too  shy  to 
show  it.  Giles  was  coaxed  and  cajoled  and  flattered  by  his 
mother  into  believing  that  Miss  Dallas  was  desperately  in  love 
with  him,  and  was  spurred  on  to  proposing  to  make  her  Mrs. 
Fane.  Hermione  accepted  hini,  and  though  it  would  be  untrue 
to  say  she  was  in  love  with  him,  she  thought  she  liked  him 
enough  to  get  on  perfectly  well  with  him,  and  had  every  inten- 
tion of  being  a  good  and  affectionate  wife.  Lady  Cornelia  hur- 
ried on  the  marriage,  terrified  lest  the  smallest  delay  should  give 
her  son  the  opportunity  of  changing  his  mind. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  SPEEDY  awakening  was  in  store  for  Hermoine.  In  a  month's 
«ame  she  was  fully  alive  to  the  fact  that  her  husband  was  an  ir- 
reclaimable boor,  and  that  he  did  not  love,  never  load  loved  her, 
A  shrewd  suspicion  visited  her  that  there  was  some  other  person 
who  possessed  the  hold  on  his  affections  that  she  could  not  ob- 
tain. If  he  had  been  really  in  love  with  her,  she  might,  nay, 
doubtless,  would  have  i»fli>*»a«cuad  him  considerably  for  his  own 


I     HAVE    LIVED    AND    COPffST  63 

benefit,  though,  at  the  best,  he  could  never  have  been  anything 
but  what  is  called  a  rough  diamond.  An  excellent  siniile,  by 
the  way,  for  what  pleasure  is  the  rough  stone  capable  of  giving 
to  any  beholder,  though  the  possessor  may  know  its  intrinsic 
value  and  speculate  upon  what  it  might  be  worth  if  it  were 
polished  ?  Soon  after  their  marriage,  Giles  Fane  took  his  bride 
home  to  their  fine  old  place,  Orange  Court,  built  in  the  time  of 
William  and  Mary.  Any  pleasure  she  might  have  had  at  first 
in  its  part  possession  was  soon  destroyed  by  the  experience  of 
her  husband's  home  manners  and  customs.  He  resumed  his 
shooting  jacket  and  short  pipe;  he  returned  with  delighted  zest 
to  the  society  of  his  former  associates.  The  county  called — ii 
admired  and  liked  Mrs.  Fane — it  invited  the  newly-married 
couple,  but  Giles  would  neither  receive  visitors  nor  go  to  their 
houses,  and  the  bride  could  not  well  make  her  appearance  alone. 
Having  a  very  fine  spirit,  she  addressed  some  very  bitter  re- 
monstranees  to  him^  at  which  he  turned  sullen ;  told  her  that 
she  had  been  forced  down  his  throat  when  he  did  not  care  a  rush 
for  her,  and  that  he  knew  devilish  well  what  she  married  him 
for.  She  might  go  where  she  liked  and  spend  what  she  chose, 
but  this  was  his  home;  here  he  would  be  master  and  do  aa 

he  liked,  and  no  d d  stuck  up  people  should,  come  here  to 

turn  up  their  noses  at  him.  He  kept  his  shooting  for  men  he 
liked  and  who  had  a  right  to  enjoy  it,  not  for  a  parcel  of  fools 
whom  he  hated  the  sight  of. 

Hermione  took  pen  and  poured  out  her  bitter  indignation  to 
Lady  Cornelia,  who,  half  frighte..ied,  half  remorseful,  came  off 
to  the  Court  at  once  to  mediate.  Poor  woman!  she  had  meant 
everything  for  the  best,  and  it  had  most  unmistakably  turned 
out  for  the  worst:  she  was  greeted  on  both  sides  with  the  most 
passionate  reproaches.  Why,  cried  Hermione,  had  she  con- 
demned her-  to  this  detestable  fate  ?  Why  had  she  pretended 
that  Giles  was  in  love  with  her  when  she  knew  to  the  contrary? 
Why  had  she  not  told  her  of  his  ways  and  habits,  of  his  low 
tastes  and  companions?  On  the  other  hand,  her  son  said  with 
sullen  fury  that  she  had  ruined  his  life;  that  she  had  married 
him  to  a  fine  lady  who  was  full  of  airs  and  graces  and  had  the 
devil's  own  temper,  and  that  she  had  prevented  his  marrying 
the  woman  he  loved,  and  driven  him  into  sin,  because  his  she 
should  be  and  no  other  man's  as  long  as  he  lived. 

Lady  Cornelia  had  that  terror  of  an  esclandre  which  is  in- 
herent in  the  breast  of  every  well-bred  woman — she  lived  in  an 
agony  lest  her  daughter-in-law  should  hear  of  the  rival  whom 
her  Ausband  openly  visited,  and  who,  in  fact,  had  him  com- 
pletely under  her  thumb  and  boasted  of  her  influence,  The 
mother  was  bitterly  punished  for  her  schemes,  though  she 
maintained  to  her  own  conscience  that  they  had  been  entirely 
designed  for  her  son's  benefit  and  happiness.  She  had,  besides, 
stings  of  remorse  about  Hermione,  of  whose  feelings  she  had 
not  thought  at  all,  but  only  that  she  was  lucky,  being  a  poor 
girl,  in  getting  a  rich  husband.  She  saw  that  there  was  only  one 
thing  for  it  now,  and  that  was  to  get  the  ill-roiatched  pair  apart 
as  much  as  possible,  and  she  proposed  to  Hermione  to  have  * 


&  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

town-house  and  to  make  it  her  principal  home.  Hermione,  being 
miserable,  acquiesced.  Lady  Cornelia  obtained  carte  blanche 
fro  in  her  son,  who  was  absolutely  indifferent  to  mone3r,  and  the 
ladies  between  them  made  a  very  luxurious  residence  of  the 
house  in  Grosvenor  Place.  But  Hermione  chafed  and  fretted  — 
she  felt  herself  disgraced  and  neglected  —  her  mother-in-law 
might  tell  specious  lies  to  the  world  and  she  might  turn  a  smiling 
to  it,  but  her  heart  knew  its  own  bitterness.  No  matter  that 


the  man  who  repudiated  her  was  a  boor  and  a  lout;  it  was  equally 
degrading  to  her  that  she  had  no  influence  over  him  and  not  the 
smallest  hold  upon  his  affections. 

La-ly  ("''•rnelia.  who  was  most  anxious  that  the  world  should 
be  kept  in  ignorance  of  the  real  state  of  affairs,  insisted  on  their 
spending  Christmas  at  Orange  .Court,  and  on  this  occasion,  most 
unfortunately,  the  knowledge  of  why  her  husband  was  indfffer- 
ent  to  her  was  forced  upon  Hermione.  She  had  been  married 
five  months  and  he  had  already  a  low-born  woman  for  his  mis- 
tress, and  half  the  county  knew  it.  Hermione  did  what  nine  out 
of  ten  high-spirited  women  would  have  done  —  she  made  a  scene 
(only,  however,  before  her  husband  and  his  mother),  and  so  vio- 
lent was  she  that  she  nearly  died  of  the  excitement  afterward, 
ami  the  hope  that  Lady  Cornelia  had  entertained  of  her  son  being 
reclaimed  by  the  softening  influence  of  fatherhood  was  doomed 
to  disappointment. 

Hermione,  who  had  intended  to  rush  from  her  husband's  roof 
forever,  was  prevented  doing  so  by  severe  illness,  the  result  of 
her  violent  emotion,  and,  for  some  weeks  afterward,  lay  almost 
at  death's  door.  As  she  gradually  returned  to  convalescence. 
she  had  plenty  of  time  for  reflection,  and  ultimately  drew  out  a* 
very  sensible  line  of  conduct  for  herself.  Her  first  wild  hatred 
of  Giles  had  subsided  —  in  time  it  would  grow  to  contemptuous 
indifference  if  she  resolutely  refused  to  think  of  her  wrongs.  As 
to  happiness  in  married  life,  that  mirage  had  passed  away  for- 
ever: better  sooner  than  later,  perhaps:  and  it  only  remained  for 
her  to  extract  what  pleasure  she  could  from  life.  She  had  every- 
thing that  wealth  could  buy:  she  was  a  perfectly  free  agent,  a 
circumstance  that  made  her  the  envy  of  most  of  her  fair  friends 
—  she  could  surround  herself  with  people  she  liked  and  who 
liked  her.  Lady  Cornelia  stood  stanchly  by  her,  showed  her  the 
greatest  affection  and  attention,  and,  indeed,  the  two  women 
really  came  to  like  each  other.  After  the  season,  she  went 
abroad:  in  the  autumn  she  visited  at  country-houses;  the  air  at 
Orange  Court  was  too  strong  for  her  —  she  had  110  appetite,  and 
felt  ill  there.  It  was  unfortunate  —  yes,  very;  it  was  such  a 
charming  place,  and  her  husband  was  so  devoted  to  it;  but  one 
cannot  live  in  a  place  where  one  always  has  a  headache. 

Nearly  three  years  elapsed  before  Hermione  bethought  her  of 
once  more  visiting  ker  country  residence.  By  this  time  she  was 
so  perfectly  indifferent  to  Giles  Fane  that  nothing  he  might  do 
**ouid  move  any  stronger  emotion  than  contempt  in  her  breast. 
They  had  met  periodically,  at  Lady  Cornelia's  earnest  entreaty, 
for  the  sake  of  keeping  society  hoodwinked,  and  they  were 
qr».ite  c.'vil  to  each  other  before  people.  Alor.e.  they  never  ex* 


/    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  S-) 

Changed  a  syllable.  It  came  to  be  a  matter  of  course  that 
Hermione  spent  the  month  of  August  at  Orange  Court,  when  her 
husband  absented  himself.  She  entertained  royally  whilst  there, 
bu&  she  and  her.  party  had  to  leave  before  the  first  of  September, 
when  Mr.  Fane  took  possession  with  his  friends.  Hermione  saw 
no  reason  why  she  should  not  have  some  benefit  out  of  her  lovely 
country-seat.  Nothing  hurt  her  now,  not  even  seeing  the  reign- 
ing sultana  in  church  with  a  sturdy  boy  on  each  side  of  her. 
That  lady  seldom  attended  divine  service  unless  the  legitimate 
wife  was  at  the  Court. 

Hermione  had  no  other  feeling  for  Giles  now  than  contempt. 
When  a  woman  thoroughly  despises  her  husband,  he  can  no 
longer  wound  or  anne^  _^er,  unless  he  tries  to  fetter  her  actions 
or  refuses  to  give  her  money.  Giles  Fane  in  these  particulars 
was  a  model  husband.  r  He  never  asked  a  question,  nor  grum- 
bled at  a  bill,  and  Hermione  certainly  spent  money  very  freely. 
It  is  possible  that  Giles,  goaded  on  by  the  jealousy  of  his  mis- 
tress, might  have  been  induced  to  annoy  his  wife,  had  she  not 
been  so  strongly  backed  up  by  his  mother;  but  he  felt  he  was  no 
match  for  the  two.  All  he  wanted  was  peace  and  quietness, 
which,  however,  he  was  far  from  enjoying,  as  the-  second  Mrs. 
Fane  had  a  fierce,  turbulent  spirit.  Stiy  he  remained  devotedly 
attached  to  her-  in  spite  of  the  scenes  to  which  she  not  unfre- 
quently  treated  Ju'm.  He  went  up  to  town  for  a  fortnight  in  the 
season  for  the  Derby  and  Ascot,  but  though  he  was  by  way  of 
staying  at  the  house  in  Grosvenor  Place,  it  saw  very  little  of 
him.  The  races,  the  horse-show  in  the  daytime,  music-halls  in 
the'  evening,  were  his  amusements.  The  world  said  he  was  a 
vulgar,  uninteresting  young  man,  and  would  have  pitied  Her- 
mione had  she  Offered  herself  as  a  candidate  for  its  sympathy. 
But  Hermione  knew  better.  Never,  how  great  soe'er  your  sor- 
rows, ask  the  world's  pity!  Pity  means  contempt.  It  may  at 
finrt  offer  you  a  languid  sympathy,  and  will  then  hasten  to  turn 
its  back  upon  you.  Present  a  smiling  face,  seem  to  be  fortunate 
and  happy,  though  you  may  be  racked  with  misery,  and  it  will 
seek  you  and  smile  upon  you. 

Hermione  smiled,  and  society  envied  and  fawned  upon  her. 
Her  smiles'  were  natural  enough  now;  she  turned  everything 
into  jest  and  was  only  cyclical  upon  one  subject — happy  mar- 
riages. She  did  not  tell  Vanessa  to  her  face  that  neither  her 
happiness  nor  her  love  would  last,  but  she  told  the  colonel  so, 
and  laughed  at  him  when  he  doubted  her. 

Vanessa  was  puzzled  about  Mrs.  Fane's  relations  with  her  hus- 
band. She  did  not  quite  know  the  real  story,  because  Colonel 
Dallas  was  not.  able  to  tell  it  her,  and  her  husband  did  not  know 
it.  Vanessa  had  not  been  brought  up  in  the  fashionable  world, 
and  her  ears  were  veiy  sensitive  indeed,  and  would  have  burned 
with  shame  had  many  things  that  were  common  talk  been 
poured  into  them,  and  the  colonel  was  the  last  man  in  the  world 
to  offend  modesty.  Many  of  her  new  acquaintances  were  amused 
anfl  surprised  at  her  innocence,  but  they  respected  it  as  gentle- 
men invariably  do.  Men  always  take  their  cijg  from  the  woniqp*, 


8fc  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

they  are  talking  to— it  is  very  rare  to  find  one  who  wantonly  and 
brutally  offends  a  modest  woman. 

Late  one  afternoon  toward  the  end  of  the  season,  Vanessa  and 
Mrs.  Fane  were  drinking  tea  in  the  boudoir  of  the  latter- they 
had  been  driving  together,  and  Vanessa's  victoria  was  presently 
to  fetch  her.  They  were  conversing  with  eager  interest  about  a 
fancy  dress  ball  to  be  given  by  a  fashionable  lady,  which  was  to 
be  a  bal  masque  until  supper-time,  when  every  one  would  have 
to  doff  mask  ano  domino.  Both  ladies  had  received  invitations. 
*?jd  were  discussing  their  costumes  with  exceeding  animation. 

"I  rather  doubt  its  success,"  says  Mrs.  Fane.  "Tsot  one 
Englishwoman  in  twenty  could  conceal  her  identity;  not  one  in 
five  hundred  disguise  her  voice.  It  is  capital  fun  abroad,  where 
every  one  enters  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing.  I  have  often  com- 
pletely mystified  people  who  knew  me  quite  well.  I  shall  speak 
nothing  but  French,  or  perhaps  broken  English,  for  Englishmen 
are  so  dreadfully  uneducated  that  very  few  understand  French-" 

"  I  am  sure  I  could  not  deceive  any  one, ''replies  Vanessa,  "  al- 
though 1  should  immensely  like  to." 

'r  Of  course  not."  laughs  Mrs.  Fane.  "You  are  too  tall,  too 
majestic:  but  a  little  person  like  myself  can  flit  about  like  a  gnat, 
buzz,  sting,  and  be  off  again  in  a  second.  Xo,  my  dear,  your  tri- 
umph will  be  later,  when  you  remove  your  mask  an'J  domino." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opens  and  admits  Lord  Ravenhold. 

11  Am  I  horribly  de  trop  f  he  asks,  having  greeted  Vanessaand 
brushed  his  sister's  curly  head  with  his  mustache.  "  Were  you 
slaying  your  thousands  or  inventing  a  new  fashion  ?  I  know  it 
is  worse  to  interrupt  two  bosom  friends  than  two  lovers." 

••  We  will  forgive  3*011,  as  3*011  don't  offend  very  often,"  laughg 
H>rmione.  *•  You  arc  a  perfect  stranger,  dear  boy.  Ring  for  a 
brandy-and-soda." ' 

"  Xo,v  shaking  his  head.  "  I  only  want  refreshment  for  the 
niind."  And  he  sinks  into  a  chair  beside  Vanessa. 

"Tell  us  some  news,"  says  Hermione,  settling  herself  to 
listen. 

"  News!  There  never  is  am*  in  hot  weather.  Besides,  I  have 
hardly  seen  a  member  of  3*0111*  sex  for  two  da3*s." 

*'  What  has  that  to  do  with  it?"  asks  Hermione.  <%  Have  y<  ,i 
not  been  to  3*001-  clubs?*' 

*'  I  should  not  be  likely  to  pick  up  any  there,"  answers  hei 
brother.  •*  The  only  place  where  I  ever  heap-news  or  scandal  ib 
in  a  hidy's  drawing-room." 

"What  a  monstrous  stor3*!"  laughs  Mrs.  Fane.  "Well,  we 
need  not  interrupt  our  conversation  for  you.  We  were  talking 
of  clothes,  of  course.  Apropos,  what  are  you  going  as?  Edgar 
Ravenswood  or  Faust?  or  one  of  the. parts  suited  to  a  handsome 
young  man  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,"  returns  Lord  Ravenhold,  "  I  am  undecided 
between  Quasimodo  and  L'Honune  qui  rit.  The  latter,  I  think, 
would  be  a  novelty." 

"  Don't  be  a  goose,  Gerard.     But  realh',  seriously  ?*' 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  go  at  all.  Fancy  a  domino  and  made  i* 
July!  I  should  die  of  the  heat. ' 


*    JTAVE    LIVED    AND    LOW**-  87 

"What  character  has  Mildred  chosen?"  inquires  Mrs.  Fane. 

"  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,"  he  replies,  mendaciously,  having 
just  come  from  quarreling  with  her  upon  the  very  subject. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  the  dressmaker  is  h^r«  "  announces 
the  butler  at  this  juncture. 

"  Oh,  1  must  see  her!''  cries  Herniione,  jumping  up.  "  Will  it 
be  indiscreet  to  leave  you  two  together  ?  Do  not  make  love  to 
her,  Gerard.  You  will  only  waste  your  time.'' 

Her  parting  shaft  causes  no  embarrassment  to  either;  they 
smile;  each  has,  or  thinks  he  has,  a  permanent  guest  in  his 
heart. 

'*  My  sister  has  a  very  light  opinion  of  me,"  remarks  Raven- 
hold,  as  the  door  closes  upon  her.  "  She  thinks  I  am  bonnd  to 
make  love  to  every  woman  I  meet.  But " — looking  at  Vanessa 
with  a  certain  degree  of  earnestness — "  I  am  the  most  faithful, 
the  most  constant  fellow  in  the  world,  and  though  I  am  not  such 
,  a  barbarian  as  to  be  insensible  to  the  charms  of  a  beautiful 
woman,  they  are  powerless  to  shake  my  allegiance/' 

If  we  assert  a  thing.  Fate  always  takes  caro  to  convict  us  of 
falsehood  the  next  moment;  and  even  as  he  speaks,  Lord  Raven- 
hold  becomes  aware  for  the  first  time  how  very  lovely  Mrs. 
Brandon  is,  and  what  a  very  strong  temptation  to  a  man's  fealty 
it  would  be  to  see  much  of  her.  What  a  skin!  What  exquisitely 
colored  eyes! — so  brilliant,  yet  so  soft.  What  a  mouth!  Lady 
Mildred  is  piquant e,  but  the  details  of  her  face  will  not  bear 
scrutiny,  and  her  complexion  is  undoubtedly  her  worst  point. 
At  home  in  her  judiciously  darkened  rooms  one  does  not  notice 
this  defect,  but  there  are  cross-lights  and  side-lights  in  other  peo- 
ple's houses.  Mrs.  Brandon's  face  is  clear  and  smiling  like  a 
Bummer's  day.  Could  it  ever  be  stormy  and  clouded  with  an- 
ger ?  Could  her  eyes  ever  dart  fiendish' glances,  her  mouth  wax 
shrewish,  her  nose  grow  red  after  crying,  like  Mildred's  ? 

4 'One  can  only  love  one  person  at  a  time,"  returns  Vanessa, 
with  a  frank  smile.  "  And  that  makes  one  perfectly  indifferent 
to  every  one  else,  as  you  say,  except  just  in  a  friendly  way." 

After  Lord  Ravenhold's  recent  observation,  it~is  utterly  un- 
reasonable that  he  should  feel  the  smallest  shadow  of  pique  at 
Mrs.  Brandon's  words.  All  the  same  he  does. 

44  Love  is  rather  disappointing,  don't  you  think?"  he  remarks, 
with  a  shade  of  melancholy  that  is  not  unbecoming  to  him. 

"  No,"  says  Vanessa,  smiling.  "I  do  not  think  so  at  all." 
She  is  half  minded  to  tell  him  that,  if  he  w^ere  properly  and 
legitimately  in  love,  he  would  find  it  an  eminently  satisfactory 
state,  but  that  people  cannot  expect  to  be  happy  when  they  are 
transgressing  laws  social  and  divine.  As  if  he  had  some  intu- 
ition of  her  thoughts,  Ravenhold  says,  plaintively: 
,  "  Fate  is  always  playing  at  cross-purposes,  and  throwing  thej 
wrong  people  together  or  the  right  ones  too  late." 

Vanessa  gives  a  little  deprecatory  shake  of  her  head.  She 
does  not  want  to  be  hard  upon  him,  because  he  is  so  good-look- 
ing, and  she  cannot  help  feeling  interested  in  him;  but  she  ean- 
Bot  assent  to  rank  blasphemy.  Is  not  she  a  living  instaao*  of 
the  falseness  nf  his  assertion  ? 


88  1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

"Yes,"  he  pursues,  sighing,  "  I  know.  You  are  an  exception. 
Well,  it  is  very  nice  for  you  and  aicfiilly  nice  .for  him.  By  tha 
way,  I  have  never  seen  your  husband. 

"  '  Twain  halves  of  a  perfect  heart  made  one.' 
I  should  very  much  like  to  see  what  the  other  half  is  like." 

"Come  and  see  us,"  says  Vanessa,  cordially;  "my  husband 
will  be  delighted  to  know  you.' 

It  occurs  to  Lord  Ravenhold  that  a  vist  of  ceremony  for  the 
purpose  of  seeing  Mr.  Brandon  will  be  dull  work. 

"  After  all,"  he  says,  ••  I  think  I  would  rather  come  and  see 
you  when  he  is  not  there.  The  sight  of  too  much  happiness 
might  make  me  envious  and  uncomfortable." 

Now  Vanessa,  although  she  has  made  great  strides  toward  be- 
coming a  fashionable  woman,  has  not  yet  taken  to  receiving  men 
tete-a-tete,  always  excepting  the  colonel.  ,  So  she  looks  a  little 
bit  embarrassed  and  says,  rather  shyly: 

"  Perhaps  you  would  come  with  Mrs.  Fane  some  day." 

"  Is  Mr.  Brandon  jealous?"  asked  Ravenhold,  unable  to  grasp 
the  idea  of  a  woman  in  these  days  thinking  it  inconvendble  to 
entertain  a  man  alone  in  her  drawing-room. 

"Jealous:'0  echoes  Vanessa,  laughing.     "No,  indeed." 

"  Ah,  then  you  think  I  should  bore  you?" 

"  No,  no,"  cries  Vanessa,  quite  distressed. 

"  Then,"  observes  Lord  Ravenhold,  gently  but  firmly,  "  I  shall 
come  and  see  you  by  myself  when  I  think  Mr.  Brandon  is  out. 
You  know  you  can  always  say  '  not  at  home,'  if  you  don't  want 
to  see  ine.': 

He  is  piqued.  As  a  rude  when  he  proposes  to  call  upon  a 
woman,  she  seems  pleasert  and  flattered — hot  one  has  ever  made 
the  smallest  reference  to  Mrs.  Grandy. 

Here  Mrs.  Fane  comes  tripping  in. 

"  Has  the  time  seemed  long?"  she  says,  archly.  *•  What  li£V3 
you  been  talking*  about  ?" 

"  I  was*  proposing,"  answers  Ravenhold,  deliberately,  "  to  do 
myself  the  honor  of  calling  on  Mrs.  Brandon,  and  she  has 
given  me  to  understand,  in  the  kindest  and  politest  way  possible, 
that  she  would  prefer  my  staying  away." 

"  Oh,  Lord  Ravenhold!"  cries  Vanessa,  blushing  and  looking 
unhappy. 

"Quite  right,  my  dear,"  laughs  Hermione.  "Keep  the  ser- 
pent out  of  Eden  as  long  as  you  can!  Thie  dear  boy,"  laying  a 
caressing  hand  on  his  head,  "  does  not  look  much  like  a  serpent, 
but  he  is  one,  and  a  very  dangerous  one  too." 

"  No  wonder,"  says  Ravenhold,  "  if  that  is  the  strain  in  which 
you  speak  of  me  to  Mrs,  Brandon,  that  she  thinks  r%e  not  sunl* 
ciently  respectable  to  be  included  in  her  visiting  list." 

CHAPTER  XV. 

LORD  RAVENHOLD  itas  put  Vanessa  into  her  carriage  and  haa 
returned  to  his  sister's  boudoir. 

"Gerard,"  says;  Hermione,  half  laughing,  "I  will  not  have 
this.  Yon  9**«  c>  leave  Mrs.  Brandon  quite  alone," 


jr    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LUVEU,  81 

"  You  flatter  me!"  replies  Ravenhold.  "  Am  I  dangerous  even 
to  the  peace  of  mind  of  a  lady  who  is  quite  wrapped  up  in  her 
husband? 

"  Being  jour  sister,  I. am  of  course  unable  to  estimate  your 
attractions  at  their  full  value,"  answers  Mrs.  Vane.  "  But  there 
is  no  doubt,"  affectionately,  "  that  you  are  a  very  good-looking 
young  man,  and  there  is  no  doubt,"  with  a  little  sigh,  '-that 
when  you  take  a  fancy  to  a  woman,  she  invariably  recipro- 
cates." 

"Then,"  says  Raverihold,  laughing,  "it  will  be  a  very  good 
corrective  to  my  vanity — especially  as  I  have  a  little  sister  who 
does  her  best  to  foster  it — to  be  snubbed  by  a  pretty  woman  as  I 
have  been  to-day." 

11  Did  she  snub  you?"  asks  Hermione,  with  an  interested  air. 

'  Most  emphatically.  She  gave  me  distinctly  to  understand 
that  she  did  not  want  me  to  call  unless  a  third  person  was  pres- 
ent." 

"  She  has  been  brought  up  in  the  country,  you  know,"  re- 
sponds Hermione,  "  and  is  not  used  to  our  manners  and  cus- 
toms. All  the  same,  dear  boy,  do  not  call.  Leave  her  quite 
alone.  She  is  very  happy,  and,  besides,  Uncle  Charlie  would  not 
like  it." 

"  Has  Uncle  Charlie  any  particular  right  or  vested  interest  in 
Mrs.  Brandon,  pray?" 

"  Yes,"  laughs  Hermione — "  the  right  of  thje  finder." 

"Tell  me,  Hermy,"  says  her  brother,  "  what  sort  of  fellow  is 
this  Brandon,  who  hae  succeeded  in  awakening  such  an  immense 
devotion  in  Iris-wife's  lovely  bosom  ?'' 

44  He  is  a  very  nice,  quiet,  gentlemanlike,  middle-aged  man," 
replies  Mrs.  Fane. 

Ravenhold  repeats  her  words  thoughtfully. 

"A very  nice,  quiet,  gentlemanlike,  middle-aged  man!  H'm! 
That  is  hardly  the  description  of  a  being  capable  of  inspiring  so 
tremendous  a  passion." 

"  It  is  quite  true  all  the  same." 

"  The  description  or  the  passion  ?" 

"Both,." 

After*aT moment's  silence,  Ravenhold  speaks  wish  much  more 
energy  than  he  has  done  hitherto. 

"  You  know  it  can't  last." 

4 'Why  not?" 

"  It's  on  the  face  of  it.  If  he's  a  quiet,  middle-aged  mai^  and 
ehe  is,  as  she  is,  a  gloriously  beautiful  woman,  with  every  man 
who  comes  near  making  up  with  her,  why,  of  course  he'll  go  to 
the  wall." 

"  Je  n'yvoispas  lanecessite,"  remarks  Hermione,  dryly.  "  It 
is  not  always  the  good-looking  young  men  who  have  all  the 
cakes  and  ale  of  female  affection.  They  are  generally  too  selfish 
and  too  much  taken  up  with  themselves  to  inspire  a  lasting  at- 
tachment," 

"That  is  reserved  for  the  nice,  quiet,  middle-aged  menrs 
suggests  Ravenhold,  and  Mrs.  Fane  nods  assent, 

'-  Gerard,"  says  his  sister,  after  a  minute's  silence. 


90  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVElT. 

"  Well,  my  clear  ?" 

"  Don't  be  too  civil  to  Mrs.  Brandon  before  Mildred.  I  should 
be  extremely  sorry  for  Vanessa  to  have  her  for  an  enemy." 

Ravenhold  gives  rather  a  petulant  shrug. 

"  Really,  Hermy.  I  think  you  are  carrying  a  joke  a  little  too 
far." 

"It  is  not  a  joke." 

"As  for  Mildred  and  myself,''  he  proceeds,  "we  are  very 
good  friends " 

'•  Yes,  I  know."  interrupts  Hermione,  dryly.  "Well,  then, 
you  had  better  keep  so.'" 

••  Good- by  P."  says  her  brother,  rising  abruptly. 

'•  Don't  be  cross,  dear  boy,''  utters  Hermione,  in  a  caressing 
tone. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  least  cross,"  lie  replies. 

"  All  right,"  kissing  him.  "  And,  to  please  me,  leave  Mrs. 
Brandon  quite  alone." 

Lord  Ravenhold  frowns  distinctly. 

"  I  think  you  are  really  silly,"  he  says,  going. 

"  I  dare  say  I  am,"  she  answers  good-humoredly. 

Two  nights  later  Mrs.  Brandon  and  Lord  Ravenhold  meet  at  a 
ball.  Lady  Mildred  is  also  there.  The  two  latter  are  not  yet 
quite  reconciled;  there  has  been  rather  a  serious  breach  between 
them,  and  Ravenhold  has  not  been  so  keen  about  making  it  up 
this  time  as  is  his  wont.  The  quick  perceptions  of  Lady  Mildred 
have  make  her  aware  of  this,  and  she,  being  proud,  hangs  back 
more  resolutely  in  consequence.  Her  ladyship  is  of  a  fiercely 
jealous  disposition^  When  she  twice  sees  Ravenhold  waltzing, 
with  Mrs.  Brandon,  and  employing  that  caressing  manner  to 
her  which  it  is  his  wont  to  use  toward  all  pretty  women  when 
his  thoughts  are  not  completely  centered  on  one",  a  sudden  rage 
and  hatred  against  Vanessa  possess  her  soul.  She  is  violent, 
headstrong,  passionate,  unjust.  When  once  her  jealousy  is 
roused,  neither  prudence  nor  common  sense  have  any  control 
over  her.  And  she  loves  Lord  Ravenhold  in  a  reckless,  furious 
sort  of  way,  and  will  not  tolerate  any  thought  of  a  rival. 

Mrs.  Fane  had  spoken  wisely  and  well  when  she  counseled  her 
brother  against  showing  any  attention  to  Mrs.  Brandon  in  Lady 
Mildred's  presence.  Perhaps,  however,  it  would  have  been  bet- 
ter if  she  had  refrained  from  cautioning  him,  for  Ravenhold  was 
a  little  perverse,  and  opposition  invariably  spurred  him  on,  par- 
ticularly where  a  woman  was  concerned.  I  am  not  sure  that  this 
was  a  peculiarity  of  his  lordship's  disposition  alone;  I  rather 
fancy  it  is  about  the  commonest  trait  that  we  inherit  from  our 
first  parents;  the  one  which  we  know  was  the  caus«  of  their 
fall. 

After  dancing  with  Mrs.  Brandon  once.  Lord  Ravenhold  had 
gone  to  Lady  Mildred's  side;  she  received  him  with  her  head  in 
the  air,  made  one  or  two  cutting  and  insolent  remarks,  and 
turned  her  back  upon  him.  He,  not  to  be  behindhand  in  spirit, 
returned  at  once  to  Vanessa,  and,  under  the  very  eyes  of  Lady 
Mildred,  petitioned  eagerly  for  another  waltz.  He  knew  and 
felt  that  he  was  doing  exactly  what  his  sister  had  v-arned  him 


T    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVKD.  91 

tgainst,  making  Lady  Mildred  Vanessa's  enemy,  and  he  felt 
rather  guilty  and  perturbed,  but  how  was  he  to  blame?  Be- 
sides, after  all,  he  sard  to  himself.  Mrs.  Brandon  did  not  care 
two  straws  about  him  or  any  one  else  except  her  husband,  so 
ffhat  harm  could  it  do? 

Vanessa  was  pleased  to  dan<-e  with  him:  he  waltzed  perfectly; 
he  was  very  good-looking:  and.  greatest  recommendation  of  all, 
he  was  nephew  to  (  olonel  Dallas  and  brother  to  Mrs.  Fane. 

Mr.  Brandon  was  at  the  ball,  and  Rsvenhold  asked  to  be  in- 
troduced to  him.  They  had  entered  into  some  conversation,  the 
younger  man  having  a  considerable  curiosity  to  arrive  at  the 
cause  of  Mrs.  Brandon's  devotion  to  her  husband.  After  some 
chat,  he  was  still  unable  to  grasp  the  reason.  Brandon  was  ex- 
actly what  Hermione  had  described  him— a  nice,  quiet,  gen- 
tlemanlike, middle-aged  man:  but  were  those  qualities  suilicient 
to  inspire  such  a  very  ardent  affection  in  the  breast  of  a  lovely 
young  woman  ? 

Lord  Ravenhold  proposed  to  Mr.  Brandon  that  he  and  his  wife 
Should  dine  with  him  at  Hurlingham  on  the  Sunday  following. 
He  would  drive  them  down  on  his  coach.  Brandon  replied  that 
it  would  give  them  both  great  pleasure.  Ravenhold  was  a  little 
surprised  when,  in  dancing  with  Mrs.  Brandon  for  the  third 
time  that  evening,  he  informed  her  of  the  pleasure  he  was  an- 
ticipating that  she  turned  rosy  red,  betrayed  considerable  confu- 
sion, and,  without  giving  any  definite  reason,  said  she  was 
afraid  they  would  not  be  able  to  accept  his  very  kind  invitation. 
He  could  not  press  her  for  the  reason,  as  she  gave  none— she 
pleaded  no  previous  engagement,  and  Ravenhold  felt  decidedly 
Ppiqued.  After  all,  he  thought,  with  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feel- 
ing, it  was  scarcely  worth  while  quarreling  a  Voutrance  with 
Milly  for  a  woman  who  did  not  seem  to  care  either  for  his  com- 
pany or  his  attentions.  So  he  went  back  to  Lady  Mildred,  bent 
on  propitiating  her.  But  by  this  time  she  was  beyond  his  power 
of  recall.  She  did  not,  however,  turn  her  back  upon  him  as  she 
had  done  before— she  was  so  furious  that  only  one  idea  possessed 
her,  which  was  to  have  it  put  with  him. 

"  Will  you  dance  this  with  me  ?"  he  whispered,  in  his  softest 
voice,  and,  without  answering  him.  she  put  her  hand  on  his 
arm.  Her  anger  was  such  that  she  could  scarcely  bear  to  touch 
him.  The  fingers  that  rested  on  his  arm  writhed  with  a  feeling 
of  antagonism.  Light  as  her  touch  was.'  she  led  him  by  her  de- 
termination of  purpose  to  the  door,  which  was  just  where  he  did 
not  want  to  go.  He  had  no  desire  for  a  tete-a-tete  at  this  mo- 
ment; at  all  events  until  a  waltz  had  exercised  a  beneficial  effect 
npon  her  ladyship's  nerves  and  temper. 

*  Let  us  stay  an'd  have  one  turn,"  he  whispered,  persuasively; 
but  without  answering  him,  she  pressed  her  lips  tighter  together, 
and  continued  her  march  toward  the  door. 

Every  considerate  hostess  provides  her  guests  with  opportuni- 
ties for  solitudes  a  deux;  to-night  there  were  several  charming 
•recesses  and  bowers  arranged  for  the  purpose      To  one  of  these 
the  lady,  reversing  the  order  of  things,  hurried  her  lover,   but 
ttle  thought  or  intention  of  love-making  was  there  on  the  part 


92  s     HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

of  either.  It  was  a  charming  alcove  dimly  lighted,  filled  with 
sweet-scentetl  flowers.  Maybe  by  dayligjit  it  ws.3  a  nook  of  the 
leads  over  the  billiard-room,  the  rendezvous  of  feline,  combat- 
ants, but  to-night  it  was  a  bower  stolen  from  Paradise.  The 
pair  had  not  time  to  exchange  a  word  before  the  sound  of  pur- 
suing footsteps  was  heard,  and  a  voice  cried: 

"  Lady  Mildred!  Lady  Mildred!  this  is  our  waltz!" 

And  a  good-looking,  eager  young  face  was  thrust  into  Para- 
dise. It  was  certainly  not  the  new-comer  who  was  the  serpent 
— that  role  was  reserved  for  the  lady. 

•"  I  am  net  going  to  dance,"  she  replied,  curtly. 

*'  Oh,  come,  I  say,  that's  not  fair!"  cried  her  promised  partner. 
''"You  don't  think  I'm  going  to  let  you  off  like  that!" 

Here  Ravenhold  made  a  slight  movement  as  though  to  escape, 
which  Lady  Mildred  detected. 

"  Where  are  you  going.  Lord  Ravenhold  ?"  she  exclaimed,  in 
a  tone  the  anger  of  which  was  very  indifferently  repressed. 
Then,  turning  to  the  other  man,  she  said,  rudely,  "Don't  you 
understand?  I'm  not  going  to  dance  this." 

Bon  sang  ne  pent  mentir  is  no  truer  than  any  other  old  saying. 
I  think  we  most  of  us  know  how  bon  sang^  can  mentir  on  occa- 
sion. Good  blood  or  bad  when  at  boiling-point  shows  itself 
much  in  the  same  manner.\ 

Lord  Edward  flushes  crimson,  makes  his  bow  in  silence,  and 
retires. 

Before  five  minutes  are  over,  half  the  company  are  made 
aware  by  him  that  Ravenhold  and  Lady  Mildred  are  having  the 
devil's  own  row,  arid  that  she  looks  simply  like  a  fiend.  It  ia( 
unwise  to  snub  any  one.  You  may  do  a  man  a  downright  in- 
jury without  incurring  half  so  much  hatred  from  him  as  by  only 
inflicting  a  small  slight. 

Left  to -themselves,  Lord  Ravenhold  and  Lady  Mildred  pre- 
serve a  temporary  silence.  She  has  a  choking  sensation  in 
her  throat;  her  nerves  are  strung  to  their  highest  pitch;  her  fin- 
gers are  literally  crispes.  She  is  full  of  savage  instincts — even 
the  repressive  social  training  of  twenty-five  years  is  scarcely  able 
to  restrain  her  from  breaking  out  as  a  Billingsgate  fish-wife 
might.  After  all,  perhaps  those  poor  women  are  not  greater 
vixens  than  others— how  did  they  get  their  evil  reputation  ? 

To  do  her  justice,  Lady  Mildred  is  trying  very  hard  to  keep 
her  furious  passion  in  leash;  she  knows  pretty  well  that,  once 
she  lets  her  tongue  loose,  she  will  not  have  the  least  control 
over  it:  its  mad  desire  to  sting  and  wound  will  be  gratified. 
Only  the  profile  of  Raveiihold's  handsome,  sulky  face  is  turned 
to  her — he  is  calmly  contemplating  an  orchid,  and  shows  no  in- 
tention of  breaking  the  silence.  He  feels  disgusted — he  does 
not  care  whether  his  companion  is  angry  or  pleased,  except  in 
so  far  as  he  is  being  made  uncomfortable  by  her  ill  humor.  He 
wonders  what  on  earth  he  ever  saw  in  her;  he  is  congratulating 
himsetf  on  the  prospect  of  quarreling  wi4h  her,  ^although  he 
has  arPunesv  suspicion  that  she  is  rather  a  dangerous  person  to 
quarra1  witr>.  Nothing  is  more  infuriating  to  an  angry  persos 


.  *    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVW*  93 

than  silence;   he  wants  a  peg  to  hang  the  cloak  of  his  wrath 
upon,  and  without  speech  from  the  adversary  he  is  pegless. 

Literally,  Lady  Mildred  does  not  know  how  to  uncork  the 
vials  of  her  wrath.  She  wants  to  dash  them,  vial  and  all,  in 
Lord  Ravenhold's  face.  When  at  last  she  does  speak,  her  voice 
16  hoarse — her  heart  beats  like  a  sledge-hammer.  The  tone 
which  she  tries  to  make  disdainful  is  only  spitefully  bitter. 

"  I  congratulate  you  upon  your  latest  conquest,"  she  says. 

Ravenhold  continues  to  contemplate  the  orchid  without  reply- 
ing. This  is  unwise  on  his  part.  Nothing  he  could  say  could 
stop  the  torrent  of  her  wrath,  but  silence  enrages  her  more  than 
any  speech  could  do,  because  the  mere  fact  of  his  not  trying  to 
appease  her  proves  his  indiiference.  There  are  many  women, 
and  men,  too,  who,  when  angry,  become  utterly  indifferent  to 
truth,  justice,  or  sense.  One  wild  ^  desire  animates  them — to 
hurt  the  foe;  how,  it  matters  not. 

"  Such  a  conquest,  too!"  pursues  Lady  Mildred,  after  a  n.o- 
m&nt's  pause.  "  'A  creature  picked  up  no  one  knows  where,  with 
her  painted  eyes  and  vulgar  beauty  airs.  Upon  my  word,  I 
rather  womler  at  your  sister  foisting  your  uncle's  mistress  upon 

ty." 

(  Perhaps  the  reader  ought  to  have  it  explained  to  Mm  that  Lady 
Mildred  is  speaking  of  Mrs.  Brandon,  whom  he  may  not  recognize 
by  her  ladyship's  description.  At  all  events,  she  succeeds  in  her 
purpose,  for  she  gets  what,  in  the  language  of  the  day,  is  termed  a 
••  risr  "  out  of  Lord  Ravenhold. 

*•  ftay  I  ask  of  whom  you  are  speaking?"  he  asks  in  tones 
of  ice,  although  dangerous  scintillations  are  gathering  in  his 
eyes. 

Lady  Mildred  is  pleased  nt  having  scored  a  point. 

"  Need  you  ask  ?"  she  says.  **  There  is  only  one  person  here  to 
whom,  as  far  as  I  know,  the  Description  at  all  applies." 

"There  are  plenty  of  women  here  with  painted  eyes,"  rejoins 
Lord  Ravenhold,  looking  her  cruelly  and  for  the  first  time  in  the 
fare.  This  time  lie  scores. 

'•There  may  be  some  with  vulgar-  beauty  airs — nothing  is 
more  odious — \  have  not  remarked  them,  having  been  in  the 
society  of  a  charming  and  beautiful  lady,  whom  no  one  could 
:accuse  of  anything  so  detestable,  but  when  you  come  to  the  third 
point,  my  uncle's  mistress,  I  confess  you  baffle  me." 

'"I  mean  Mrs.  Brandon,"  retorts  Lady  Mildred,  too  angry  to 
fence;  "  if  you  don't  know  it,  every  one  else  does." 

Lord  Ra* •  enliold  retains  his  coolness,  although  he  lost  his  Jtem* 
'per  some  little  time  u^o. 

"  Whoever  invented  that  story  is  a  liar,"  he  observes,  quite 
calmly.  Lady  Mildred  can  scarcely  restrain  herself  from  tearing 
him  to  pieces  "physically. 

"How  dare  yon!"  slio  pants.     "  You  coward!" 

"  It  was  you,  then  V" 

"  You  are  in  love  with  her  too,"'  gasps  Lady  Mildred.  "Do 
you  think  I  have  not  seen  it  coming  on  from  the  very  day  she 
first  went  to  Grosvenor  Place  V  Do  you  think  I  have  not  seen 
how  Hermione  has  been  throwing  her  at  you  and  playing  into 


94  /     HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

your  hands?  Yon  had  better  think  twice.  Do  you  fancy  thai 
I  am  a  woman  to  be  thrown  over  like  you  did  Ella  Scott?  ] 
don't  advise  you  to  dare  me.  I  am  quite  capable  of  going  tq 
Frank  this  very  night." 

She  is  quite  beside  herself,  and  Ravenhold  appreciates  that  in 
her  present  mood  it  will  not  be  safe  to  dare  her.  as  "his  angei 
tempts  him  very  much  to  do. 

*""  Milly,"  he  says,  trying  to  speak  soothingly,  but  feeling  the 
most  excessive  distaste  and  repugnance  to  her  all  the  same, 
"  what  on  earth  has  come  to  you?  What  are  you  driving  atl 
Have  you  gone  suddenly  mad  ?" 

"  No."  she  answers,  bitterly,  "  I  am  perfectly  gane.  You  had 
better  take  care.  I  swear  you  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with 
that  woman.  Do  you  hear?  I  swear  it  by  every " 

"May  I  have  one  word  with  you,  Lord  Ravenhold?"  sayfc  4 
voice.  Then,  as  its  owner  becomes  aware  of  Lady  Mildred,  It 
adds: 

"  J  beg  your  pardon." 

The  voice  is  John  Brandon's. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

LORD  RAVENHOLD  rises  hurriedly  and  goes  forward  to  speak  to 
Mr.  Brandon.  His  face  has  a  slightly  flushed,  perturbed  expres- 
sion—he does  not  know  how  much  the  new-comer  may  nave 
heard— it  makes  his  naturally  suave  manner  a  trifle  abrupt. 

Brandon,  however,  knows  and  guesses  nothing  except  that  he 
has  come  awkwardly  upon  a  tete-a-tete,  always  a  disagreeable 
and  stupid  thing  to  do,  and  only  to  be  repaired  by  seeming  un- 
conscious of  one's  misadventure.  So  fie  says  quietly  and  natur- 
ally enough: 

••We  are  just  going.  Lord  Ravenhold.  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
that  I  fear  we  shall  not  be  able  to  dine  at  Hurlingham  with  you 
on  Sunday.  Thank  you  very  much  all  the  same  for  asking 
us." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  replies  Lord  Ravenhold,  rather  shortly, 
more  because  he  is  embarrassed  than  from  any  feeling  of  of- 
fense. 

Brandon  imagines  that  his  lordship  is  huffy  about  their  de- 
clining his  invitation  after  having  accepted  it. 

"The  truth  is,"  he  says,  smiling,  "that  although  my  wife 
would  like  nothing  so  much,  she  has  some  little  conscientious 
scruples  about  driving  and  dining  out  on  Sunday,  and  I  feel 
bound  to  respect  them.  You  know  she  is  a  clergyman's  daugh- 
ter and  has  been  very  quietly  brought  up." 

'•  Oh,  of  course,  yes — certainly,"  replies  Ravenhold,  who  at  this 
moment  is  totally' indifferent  whether  they  dine  or  stay 
and,  feels  no  interest  in  anyone's  scruples  or  principles;  feels 
nothing,  in  short,  but  a  desire  to  get  out  of  the  place  and 
Lady  Mildred's  ill  humor  and  recriminations. 

"You  understand,  I  hope?"  says  Brandon,  seeing  thatlH 
young  man's  manner  is  not  particularly  genial. 

•  u>uifee.     Certainly,"  answers  Ravenhold.     "  Some  other  &• 


HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  95 

I  hope.  Good-night,"  and  he  turns  on  his  heel  and  rejoins  Lady 
Mildred. 

SHe,  having  been  slightly  frightened  by  Mr.  Brandon's  sudden 
appearance,  and  having  had  a  minute  in  which  to  get  the  better 
of  her  rage,  has  calmed  down.  As  Raveiihold  stands  in  front 
of  her,  her  passion  for  him  and  his  good  looks,  which  are  not 
impared  by  the  cloud  on  his  brow,  go  still  further  toward  ap- 
easing  her. 

"  What  did  he  want?"  she  asks. 

"  Not  my  blood — this  tinle,"  returns  the  young  man,  coolly. 
"  He  is  not  yet  aware  of  my  infatuation  for  his  wife.'1 

Lady  Mildred  likes  him  in  this  mood.  Rising,  She  lays  one 
hand  on  his  and  says,  rather  humbly: 

"  Let  us  be  friends,  Gerard,  shall  we?" 

"  As  you  please,"  he  answers,  coldly.     It  is  his  turn  now. 

44  Don't  be  angry!"  she  pleads.  "  ft  is  f>nly  because  I  am  so 
fond  of  you." 

"You  have  an  infernally  unpleasant  way  of  showing  your 
fondness  then,  I  must  say,"  he  retorts. 

"Say  you  care  for  me."  she  whispers,  fixing  her  dark  eyes  IMI- 
'  treat  ingly  on  his  face. 

"  I  hate  scenes,"  he  utters,  turning  away  from  IHT. 

"Only  tell  me  that  you  don't  care  for  tiiat — that  irumaii,  and  1 
won't  make  any  more  scenes." 

"  I  suppose  that  in  time  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  call  my  soul  my 
own,"  exclaims  Ravenhold,  waxing  angry  as  b«»*  T»rrath  sub- 
sides. 

"  No,"  she  whispers,  coaxingly.     *'  It  shall  be  mine — all  mine." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  retorts,  dryly.  "  I  would  rather  have  it  in 
my  own  keeping. " 

"  Let  us  go  and  -have  one  turn,"  says  Lady  Mildred.  "  I  will 
throw  my  partner  over  for  you." 

"  No,  thanks.  You  have  taken  the  dancing  humor  out  of 
me." 

"Then,  perhaps,"  she  remarks,  the  sparks  of  her  anger,  al- 
ways quick  to  unite,  blazing  up  again,  "  you  will  take  me  to  my 
carriage  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  he  answers,  stiffly,  giving  her  his  arm. 

But  when  they  are  half  way  down-stairs,  they  are  met  by  Lady 
Mildred's  promised  partner,  who  is  ascending,  and  as  he  claims 
her  eagerly,  she  allows  herself  to  be  entreated,  and  goes  back  to 
the  ballroom  with  him. 

Lord  Ravenhold  betakes  himself  home,  and  as  he  is  very  wide 
awake,  and  not  at  all  pleased  in  his  mind,  he  lights  a  cigar  and 
delivers  himself  over  to  reverie. 

The  events  of  the  evening  have,  for  the  time,  somewhat  im- 
paired the  devotion  to  women,  which  is  part  of  his  religion. 
One  has  made  him  thoroughly  uncomfortable  by  her  ill  temper 
and  jealousy,  and  another,  to  whom  he  wished  to  be  civil,  has 
shown  a  very  small  appreciation  of  his  efforts.  When  women 
are  smiling  anil  loving  and  devoted,  they  are  angels;  when  they 
are  the  other  thing— why— then  they  are  the  other  thing  too! 

A.  few  hour*'  aleep  aiaks*  a  change  in   his  ideas.     It  is  as* 


96  7    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

tounding  fiow  the  morning  light  can  metamorphose  our  views  of 
life  and  people.  When  Lord  Ravenhold Awakes  in  the  morning, 
be  is  more  angry  and  disgusted  with  Lacly  Mildred  than  before, 
but  he  looks  upon  Mrs.  Brandon  in  an  extremely  favorable 
light.  She  is  a  good  and  charming  woman — devoted  to  her 
husband  (the  luckiest  fellow  in  England,  by  Jove!),  without  a 
thought  of  flirting,  and  with  nice,  proper,  religious  ideas.  Every 
woman  ought  to  be  religious.  Instead  of  sneering  at  her  for  her 
old-fashioned  notions  about  Sunday,  he  admires  and  respects  hei 
for  them.  He  would  like  to  know  more  of  her  and  to  be  her 
friend,  quite  in  a  platonic  way;  he  is  sure  that  she  would  do  him 
good. 

"Uncle  Charlie,"  he  says,  meeting  the  colonel  in  Pall  Mall 
the  same  morning,  "  I  want  you  to  take  me  to  call  on  Mrs. 
Brandon." 

Colonel  Dallas  does  not  answer  for  a  moment.  Then  he  says, 
looking  his  nephew  straight  in  the  face: 

"  There  are  plenty  of  other  women  in  the  world,  my  dear 
boy." 

Lord  Ravenhold  colors  slightly,  and  is  furious  with  himself  for 
doing  so.  . 

"Upon  my  soul!"  he  exclaims,  petulantly,  "I  think  it's 
rather  hard  that  I  cannot  express  a  wish  to  speak  to  a  lady  with- 
out  " 

He  does  not  finish  his  sentence.  * 

"  You  know  the  family  failing,"  returns  the  colonel,  good- 
.  humorecfiy.  "  You  don't  mean  any  harm.  Mais  c'est  pkts  fort 
one  vous.  Leave  Adam  and  Eve  in  paradise;  leave  the  poor  man 
his  ewe  lamb." 

"  Is  it  you  or  Mr.  Brandon  who  is  the  poor  man  ?"  asks  Raven- 
hold,  with  thinly  veiled  sarcasm. 

"  Not  me,"  laughs  the  colonel.  "  You  know,  hereditary  disease 
"generally  skips  one  generation." 

"Seriously,  Uncle  Charlie,"  pursues  the  young  man,  "Mrs. 
Brandon  is  a  nice,  good,  charming  woman;  she  wouldn't  look  at 
me,  and  I  should  be  quite  content  to  be  her  friend." 

"No,  no,  leave  her  alone!"  says  the  colonel,  almost  entreat- 
ingly. 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  returns  Ravenhold,  turning  away  in  extrernfc 
displeasure. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  walks  into  his  sisters  boudoir. 

"Gerard!  what  havtyou  been  doing?"  she  cries  at  sight  of 
him.  "  Did  I  not  beg  and  implore  you  to  leave  Mrs.  Brandon 
alone,  and  not  to  make  Milly  her  enemy  ?" 

"  You  are  pleased  to  speak  in  parables,"  says  Ravenhold,  stiffly, 
knowing  all  too  well  what  she  means. 

"  She  has  just  been  here  in  the  most  furious  rage.  We  have 
all  but  quarreled.  She  said  the  most  shameful  and  abominable 
things  about  Mrs.  Brandon,  and  she  will  abuse  her  to  evet*y  one 
she  meets." 

"  Let  herT  observes  Lord  Ravenhold,  tlryly.  "  I  hardly  flancy 
anything  she  can  say  will  do  Mrs.  Brandon  much  iiarai/' 

"Bu+.  ^t  will!"  persists  Hermioae.     "  People  ars  only  too  de- 


jt    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  9» 

lighted  to  believe  harm  of  any  one,  especially  of  a  pretty  woman. 
And  Milly  has  a  great  deal  of  social  influence.  But,  now,  what 
did  you  do  last  night  to  make  her  so  angry?  Did  you  dance 
much  with  Mrs.  Brandon  ?" 

•'/Once  or  twice." 

"Was  it  once  or  twice?'' 

"  I  don't  know.    Suppose,"  defiantly,  "  it  was  three  times?" 

"Oh,  then  I  should  understand  at  once,"  remarks  Hermione, 
dryly.  "  And  after  I  begged  and  implored  you  so  to  leave  her 
alone!" 

"  What  is  there  in  dancing  three  times  with  a  woman?"  cries 
Ravenhold,  angrily,  "  I  often  dance  four  and  five  times  with 
one." 

"  I  dare  say,"  returns  Hermione,     "  But  that  is  some  one. 
with  whom,  for  the  moment,  you  are  very  much  epris.   Gerard,' 
looking  up  at  him,  "  I  am  afraid  you  are  very  fickle.     A  little 
while  ago  you  had  no  eyes  for  any  one  but  Milly." 

"  You  seem  to  forget  that  she  has  a  husband,"  retorts  Raven* 
hold. 

"  So  did  you,  then,"  says  Hermione. 

"She  is  very  good  company,  and  you  know  perfectly  well, 
Her  my,  that  one  is  driven  to  it  if  one  is  a  wretched  devil  who 
happens  to  be  worth  inarming.  You  know  that  I  dare  not  say 
a  civil  word  to  a  girl  without  her  father  or  mother  being  at 
me,  and  those  infernal  papers  having  a  paragraph  about  it." 

*•  I  have  nothing  to  say  about  you  and  Milly.  Did  I  ever  in- 
terfere by  look  or  word  ?  But  Mrs.  Brandon  is  different,  and  I 
do  not  want  her  happiness  to  be  disturbed.  Heaven  knows I* 
bitterly,  '•  there  are  few  enough  happy  marriages." 

"Upon  my  word,"  says  Lord  Ravenhold,  "'Is ought  to  feel 
flattered  by  your  all  thinking  that  I  have  only  to  hold  up  my 
finger  to  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  London.  She  is  a  nice, 
good  woman,  and  I  want  to  be  friends  with  her.  Make  you* 
mind  easy— she  has  not  one  idea  beyond  her  husband." 

'  *  I  don't  believe  in  friendship  between  a  handsome  young 
man  a  id  a  beautiful  woman.  And  you  can't  help  it,  Gerard! 
it's  in  your  blood — the  moment  you  want  to  be  civil  to  a  woman, 
you  begin  to  make  love  to  her  without  even  knowing  it.  Now  1 
want  you  to  oblige  me.  You  were  to  have  dined  here  to-morrow 
night." 

"  I  am  to  dine  here." 

"  The  Brandons  are  coming.     Now,  to  please  me,  stop  away.'3 

"  You  are  very  kind  and  hospitable.  I  have  refused  five  other 
invitations,  and  now  you  want  to  turn  me  loose  without  any 
dinner  at  all." 

"  Efbn't  come,  there's  a  dear  boy!" 

Lord  Ravenhold  gets  very  angry,  and  does  not  attempt  to 
conceal  his  ill  humor.  He  leaves  Grpsvenor  Place  in  wrath. 

When  I  say  that  after  this  he  begins  to  think  very  seriously 
about  Mrs.  Brandon  and  all  her  charms  and  graces,  no  one  who 
knows  anything  of  the  world  or  human  nature  will  be  sur- 
prised. Opposition  in  love  is  to  most  men  (and  women  too)  what 
the  magnet  Is  to  the  needle.  Two  mornings  later,  Lord  Rav®ji- 


38  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

hold,  sauntering  down  the  shady  side  of  the  park,  espies  his 
sister  and  Mrs.  Brandon  sitting  together.  On  Hemiione's  left  is 
the  man  who  is  her  greatest  friend — a  man  whom  the  world 
Vould  once  have  liked  to  whisper  scandal  about  in  connection 
ivith  her.  only  that  he  and  she  had  tact  and  courage  enough  to 
hip  all  cause  for  such  whisperings  in  the  bud.  The  seat  beside 
Vanessa  is  vacant,  and  Ravenhold.  his  heart  beating  a  trifle 
faster,  and  his  eyes  darting  a-  glance  of  defian?3  at  his  sister, 
takes  swift  possession  of  it. 

Mrs.  Fane  yields  to  the  inevitable — she  has,  besides,  a  good 
deal  to  say  to  her  companion,  so  Ravenhold  and  Vanessa  are 
left  to  their  own  devices.  They  begin^by  talking  about  the 
ball  at  which  they  met  two  nights  previously.  She  found  it 
charming,  and  praises  the  floor,  the  music,  the  decorations,  the 
flowers  with  enthusiasm.  He,  on  the  contrary,  has  little  good  to 
say  of  it:  but  then,  in  his  mind,  it  is  associated  with  very  disa- 
greeable recollections. 

4<  Perhaps/'  he  says,  "  it  was  the  frightful  snub  you  gave  me 
which  prevented  my  finding  it  pleasant." 

•*  Snub!"  Vanessa  echoes  his  word,  and  her  great  eyes  look 
troubled  and  distressed. 

"  Did  you  really  think  me  a  profane  Sabbath-breaking  wretch 
for  proposing  to  drive  you  out  to  dine  on  Sunday,  or  was  it  a  lit- 
tle excuse  to  get  off  dining  with  me  at  all  ?" 

Vanessa  looks  positively  unhappy. 

"Oh.  Lord  Ravenhold,  why  do  you  say  that  ?v  she  exclaims. 
"You  are  not  serious — you  do  not  really  believe  it?  There  is 
nothing  in  the  world  I  should  have  enjoyed  so  much." 

"  Then  you  really  think  it  wrong  to  go  '  pleasuring'  on  a  Sun- 
day ?  Which  is  it  that  shocks  you  most— the  dining  or  the  driv- 
ing ?" 

He  does  not  say  it  in  a  bantering  tone,  as  the  words  seem  to 
imply,  but  looks  at  her  quite  seriously. 

"Iain  not  shocked  at  either,"  she  answers,  hastily.  "  I  do 
not  think  anything  wrong  for  other  people;  it  is  only  that  I 
have  not  been  accustomed  to  it  myself." 

"  Then  some  week-day  you  might  be  induced  to  come?" 

"  I  should  like  it  better  than  anything,"  she  answers,  with 
Unmistakable  sincerity. 

"  How  would- next  Tuesday  suit  you?" 

"  We  are  going  to  a  ball,  but  we  have  no  dinner  engagement.1" 

'I  will  bring  you  back  in  time  to  dress.  Hermy,  speaking 
across  Vanessa  to  his  sister,  '*  will  .you  come  down  and  dine 
at  Hurlinghain  on  Tuesday?  And  you,  Anson?"  to  her  neigh- 
bor. 

Mrs.  Fane  hesitates. 

"It  would  be  very  pleasant,"  Mr.  Anson  says,  quietly.  And 
that  turns  the  balances  in  Mrs.  Fane's  mind.  After  all,  she  ia 
not  her  brothers  keeper  nor  Mrs.  Brandon's." 

"  And  we  will  ask  Uncle  Charlie,"  adds  Ravenhold. 

**  Oh,  do!"  exclaims  Vanessa,  so  eagerly  that  the  young  man 
feels  half  inclined  to  be  jealons. 

•*  Talk  of  one's  uncle,"  Tries  Mrs.  Fane,  *'  and  there  he  is/' 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  99 

Colonel  Dallas  conies  up  to  them.  He  is  not  looking  quite  sc 
beaming  as  usual;  as  his  eye  rests  on  the  two  couples,  he  feels  a 
s  sensation  which  is  the  reverse  of  agreeable.  Both  nephew  and 
niece  perfectly  understand  the  reason  of  his  clouded  brow,  but 
Vanessa,  being  quite  innocent  and  unconscious,  does  not  evei, 
remark  it.  She  is  surprised  that  the  colonel  does  not  jump  at 
the  thought  of  making  one  of  this  delightful  party;  indeed,  he 
seems  more  inclined  to  excuse  himself  than  to  accept. 

"But  you  must  come/ indeed  you  must,"  pleads  Vanessa, 
with  earnest  entreaty  beaming  from  her  eyes.  4k  It  would  not 
be  half  so  nice  without  you.'1 

4i  Does  she  want  me  to  make  sixth  and  take  her  husband  off?" 
whispers  a  suspicious  demon  in  the  colonel's  ear,  but  her  lovely 
face  is  so  candid  and  sincere  that  he  acquits  her  at  once. 

Lord  Ravenhold  does  not  see  Mrs.  Brandon  again  until  the 
following  Tuesday.  He  writes  her  a  pretty  little  note  of  re- 
minder, and  she  replies  to  it.  Like  a  child  she  watches  the 
weather  eagerly,  and  is  rejoiced  when  the  day  dawns  hot  and 
fair.  Ravenhold  is  to  come  first  to  Bryanston  Square,  and  then 
to  pick  up  the  rest  of  the  party  at  Grosvenor  Place. 

When  Vanessa  is  seated  behind  the  four  fine  chestnuts  and  be- 
side her  handsome  young  jehu,  she  is  so  happy  and  delighted 
that  her  fair  face  seems  almost  to  ripple  over  with  joy.  At  every 
moment  she  turns  to  claim  her  husband's  sympathy  with  her 
pleasure  by  a  smile  or  a  few  glad  words,  and  his  honest  heart 
beats  responsively  to  her  contentment.  His  lordship,  conscious 
that  he  is  perfectly  turned  out,  and  that  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  London  is  beside  him,  find  pleased  to  be  there,  is 
radiant.  Perhaps  he  looks,  as  a  man  envious  of  him  says  to  an- 
other as  they  go  by,  as  if  he  fancied  himself  uncommonly.  But, 
in  reality,  it  is  Mrs.  Brandon  whom  he  fancies.  Pray  Heaven 
they  may  not  meet  Lady  Mildred!  Of  course  they  do;  the  coach 
and  her  barouche  stand*  side  by  side  for  a  minute  at  the  pleasant 
and  convenient  little  crossing  at  Hyde  Park  Corner.  She  havS 
seen  them  coming,  and  a  madness  of  anger  possesses  her.  But 
she  quietly  takes  her  Court  Guide  from  the  opposite  seat  and  ap- 
pears calmly  intent  upon  searching  for  an  address. 

Ravenhold  does  not  even  know  that  she  has  seen  them.  But 
a  coach -and-f  our  is  a  very  good  target  for  the  eye,  especially 
when  it  is  right  across  the  road  in  front  of  you. 

"  There  is  Lady  Mildred!"  exclaims  Vanessa,  and  she  bends  a 
little  forward,  wishing  to  catch  that  lady's  eye,  not,  you  may  be 
sure,  from  any4riumphant  feeling  of  rivalry.  She  is  her  hus- 
band's and  he  is  hers:  other  women's  husbands  and  lovers  are 
safe  from  her.  the  meeting  is  unlucky.  It  was  only  last  Sunday 
that  Ravenhold  had  made  his  peace  with  Lady  Mildred  and 
given  her  his  word  of  honor,  backed  by  the  strongest  assevera- 
tions, that  she  wras  the  only  woman  in  the  world  for  him,  and 
that,  although  he  thought  Mrs.  Brandon  good-looking,  his  de- 
sires and  intentions  went  no  further.  Hermione  and  Mr.  Anson 
oome  out. to  join  the  party  in  excellent  spirits.  The  colonel  is 
Uiot  in  the  same  form  as  the  others,  but  then  he  sits  facing  the 
which  is  not  enlivening,  and  his  reflections  are  n<H  alto- 


100  7    HAVE    LIVED    AND 

getner  of  a  pleasant  nature.  He  has  been  devoted  to  Vanessa 
and,  up  to  this  moment,  she  alone  of  all  his  pretty  acquaintance* 
has  never  shunted  him  for  another  member  of  his  sex.  He  has 
always  been  her  flattered,  feted  colonel,  but  now  that  Ravenhold 
has  come  upon  the  scene  with  his  good  looks,  his  coach,  and  his 
numerous  other  adjuncts,  there  is  no  question  that  he  is  *'  out  of 
it."  After  all,  he  has  only  himself  to  thank:  he  has  brought  her 
into  this  set,  where  but  for  him  she  certainly  would  not  be  now. 
He  is  a  fool  for  his  pains,  and  God  alone  knows  whether  any- 
thing worse  may  come  of  it." 

Thus  the  colonel  to  himself,  as  they  sweep  down  Queen's  Gate 
and  along  the  narrow  and  unsavory  streets  which  lead  to  what 
seems  paradise  to  Vanessa,  but  presents  itself  in  quite  a  different 
shape  to  our  soliloquist. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  dinner  is  a  cheery  one.  Lord  Ravenhold  is  assiduous  in 
his  attentions  to  his  fair  guest.  Mr.  Anson  and  Mrs.  Fane  are 
occupied  with  each  other,  and  Colonel  Dallas,  who  has  too  much 
good  taste  and  breeding  to  allow  himself  to  be  a  trouble-fet^ 
talks  to  the  husband  with  an  excellent  grace,  and  consoles  him- 
self with  his  dinner,  to  which  he  is  by  no  means  indifferent. 
Although  both  he  and  Ravenhold  are  perfectly  aware  of  the  at- 
tachment between  Roland  Anson  and  Hernioiiie^  it  gives  neither 
any  disquietude — they  have  had  ample  proof  before  now  of  the 
man's  honor  and  the  woman's  rectitude  of  principle.  Roland 
Anson  is  one  of  the  few  men  capable  of  loving  a  woman  better 
than  himself. 

He  is  tall,  rather  thin,  about  thirty-five  years  of  age,  with  a 
grave  manner,  an  unmistakable  cachet  of  breeding,  and  dark- 
gray  eyes  that  have  a  very  soft  and  kindly  expression;  and  some- 
thing more  when  they  rest  on  Hermione.  He  loves  and  admires 
her  more  than  any  other  woman  in  the  world;  she  is  like  some 
bright  little  fairy  to  him,  and  he  has  the  deepest,  tenderest  corn- 
pa  s sion  for  her  woes  and  wrongs,  which  he  perhaps  knows  more 
about  than  any  other  living  being.  There  was  a  time  when  her 
natural  protectors  and  guardians  (not  including  Mr.  Fane)  had 
felt  some  uneasiness  about  this  intimacy,  but  experience  has 
caused  that  to  wear  off,  and  they  accepted  and  liked  Roland 
Anson  as  a  friend  of  the  family  and  a  man  to  be  trusted. 

Something  of  Ravenhold's  habitually  caressing  manner  to 
pretty  women  is  creeping  into  his  demeanor  to  Vanessa — he  is 
conscious  of  it  himself,  and  pauses,  once  now  and  again,  to  look 
over  at  her  husband,  who,  however,  shows  not  the  smallest 
eymptom  of  jealousy.  After  dinner,  the  host  proposes  an  ad- 
journment to  the  garden,  and  again  the  three  couples  pair  off 
It  would  be  perfectly  easy  for  Brandon  to  keep  near  his  wife- 
%vho  has  not  the  smallest  desire  to  elude  him,  and,  of  the  two 
would  rather  stroll  about  with  him,  hanging  lovingly  on  his 
&rni,  than  with  Ravenhold;  but  he  is  as  sure  and  confident  of 
her  now  as  last  year  he  was  doubting  and  diffident.  The  best- 
looking,  beskkred  men  in  London  have  surrounded  and  fluttered 


"•"/    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LtiVftD  \yfa 

her,  and  she  loves  him  as  much  and  more  than  ever,  and  has  not 
one  look  or  word  of  coquetry  or  encouragement  for  any  other 
man.  John  Brandon  is  not  one  to  go  out  of  his  way  to  meet  un- 
pleasant things,  and  he  is  perfectly  unsuspicious.  Naturally 
Ravenhold,  as  well  as  any  other  young  fellow,  admired  his  wife— 
why  not  ?  but  he  is  furthest  from  giving  him  credit  for  dishonor- 
able or  unworthy  attentions.  Nor  has  Ravenhold  any  such—he 
would  have  instantly  wanted  the  blood  of  the  man  who  dared  to 
hint  such  a  thing,  but  he  has  a  way,  like  a  good  many  other 
handsome,  spoiled  boys,  of  letting  himself  drift,  and  then  lament- 
ing, as  the  colonel  said,  that  it  was  plus  fort  que  lui.  So,  in  spite 
of  himself  (or  more  truly  because  he  makes  no  effort  over  him- 
self), as  he  and  Vanessa  stroll  over  the  turf  and  look  at  the 
river,  his  eyes  dwell  longer  on  her  and  his  voice  grows  softer 
and  more  caressing.  But  she,  only  having  one  mail's  image  in 
her  heart,  and  no  room  there  for  another,  is  not  at  all  embar- 
rassed or  ^neasy,  but  talks  away  gayly  and  frankly  to  him;  too 
gayly,  according  to  his  idea,  as  he  is  rather  plaintively  and  senti- 
mentaljy  inclined. 

Now  they  are  sitting  on  a  bench  on  the  greensward  under  the 
great,  starlit  canopy  of  the  dark-blue  sky.  It  is  quite  light 
enough  for  each  to  see  the  expression  of  the  others  face. 

"How  happy  you  seem!"  says  Ravenhold,  almost  enviously^ 
and  he  heaves  a  deep,  deep  sigh,  as  though  such  happiness  werex 
rather  displeasing  to  him. 

*'  I  am  happy,"  she  answers,  with  a  low,  contented  laugh. 
"  What  a  good  thing  it  is  to  be  happy — very  happy!1' 

"  Have  you  never  been  unhappy?"  he  asks,  rather  mourn- 
fully. 

"  Never.     Never  in  my  life." 

"  I  did  not  know  there  was  any  one  in  the  world  who  could 
make  such  a  boast  as  that,"  utters  Ravenhold. 

4<  But  you?"  says  Vanessa,  gayly.  "  You  do  not  give  me  the 
idea  of  an  unhappy  person,  Lord  Ravenhold." 

"  One  does  not  wear  one's  heart  upon  onejs  sleeve,"  he  an- 
swers. "  But  if  one  is  always  tormented  by  a  want  that  cannot 
be  satisfied,  do  you  think  one  can,be  happy  ?" 

Vanessa  imagines  that  he  is  thinking  of  Lady  Mildred;  that 
his  word«s  apply  to  her.  She  likes  him  too  much  to  want  to  be 
his  censor,  but  she  is  shocked  at  the  thought  of  unlawful  pas- 
sion. 

"  If  one  cannot  have  a  thing,"  she  answers,  looking  down  at 
the  turf  beneath  their  feet  whilst  his  eyes  are  fixed  on  her  face 
" ought  one  not  try  to  do  without  it?" 

"  No,"  he  says,  emphatically,  seeing  that  she  is  interpreting 
him  wrongly.  "  Not  if  it  is  a  thing  that  it  is  right  and  fair  to 
want,  not  if  one  is  obeying  the  first  law  of  nature  by;  want- 
ing it." 

Vanessa  looks  up  at  him  a  little  startled.  Having  a  rooted 
idea  that  it  is  Lady  Mildred  whom  he  wants,  she  does  not  under- 
stand his  speech. 

"  To  my  mind  there  is  only  one  thing  in  the  wprl^J.  worth  hav- 
ing," utters  Ravenhold,  in  a  low  voice  but  withjnt«tise  earnest- 


K£  1'  HAVE    LJVEI)    AND    LOVED. 

ness,  whilst  he  keeps  his  eyek  fixed  on  the  lovely  face  which 
it  seenie  to  him  might  crown  the  hopes  and  desires  of  the  moat 
fastidious  man  living.  "  That  is  love;  ardent,  passionate  love; 
not  a  mere -paltry  fancy  which  soon  subsides  into  an  eas3T-going 
liking  or  else  into  indifference,  but  a  love  that  occupies  every 
moment  of  one's  life,  that  keep?  every  nerve  full  strung:  a  love 
that  is  heaven  or  hell,  but,  as  I  would  have  it.  heaven." 

She  understands  him.  his  words  touch  a  chord  in  her  heart — 
that,  in  the  plenitude  of  her  youth  and  passion,  is  what  she  too 
craves.  Dearly  as  she  loves  her  husband,  she  has  already  felt 
bitter  disappointment  at  the  fading  of  his  passion,  whilst  hers  has 
rather  increased.  No  matter  that  his  love  is  truer,  faithfuller 
than  ever,  it  is  not  the  love  she  desires;  not  the  love  she  had  last 
year. 

She  leans  her  head  slightly  back,  and,  looking  wistfully  at  the 
spangled  sky,  says,  in  a  dreamy  voice. 

"  Then  one  would  be  too  happy."  and,  catching  the  infection 
from  her  companion,  she  heaves  a  long  sigh,  A  moment's  si- 
lence, then  Ravenhold  says;  % 

"  Heart- hunger  has  become  a  cant  phrase,  but  it  is  a  true  one; 
it  expresses  a  real  feeling.  How  happy  people  must  be  who 
either  do  not  know  what  it  means,  or, "looking  still  at  her,  "  who, 
feeling  it.  can  have  it  satisfied!" 

He  is  trying  to  probe  her  to  discover  whether  her  heart  is  really 
as  satisfied  as  it  seems  to  be. 

Vanessa's  thoughts  take  a  sudden  turn  away  from*  herself,  and 
she  says,  bringing  her  eyes  and  thoughts  down  from  the  skies 
and  fixing  them  on  him: 

•'  Why  do  you  not  love,  then?  Surely  you  have  only  to  ask 
and  havef'  and  she  gives  him  a  friendly  flattering  little  smile. 
"  There  are  so  many  pretty,  charming  girls  in  society  who  ought 
to  come  up  to  your  ideal." 

44  Don't  you  see,"  he  utters,  "  that  it  is  just  there  the  hardship 
lies  f;  I  don't  like  girls  very  much,'  with  a  little  disdainful  curl 
of  the  upper  lip,  "  but  if  I  did  like  one.  how  could  I  know  that 
she  cared  for  me,  orxthat  she  would  fulfill  my  want  or  answer  to 
my  longing  ?  She  would  be  pretty  sure  to  pretend  to  like  me, 
unless  a  bigger  swell  was  by;  she  would  smile  and  be  good- 
tempered,  and  if  she  saw  it  was  necessary,  would  feign  to  be  as 
fond  and  loving  as  propriety  permitted ; "whatever  tune  I  piped 
she  would  dance  to,  until  she  had  got  me,  And,  afterward,  I 
should  perhaps  find  her  a  shrew  or  an  icicle,  who,  whilst  I  was 
dying  for  love  and  sympathy,  would  be  thinking  about  her 
frocks  or  yawning,  or  counting  the  stones  in  her  rings  and 
showing  me  that  I  bored  her  unutterably,  Men  who  have  the 
misfortune  to  possess  a  title  have  no  chance  of  knowing  if  they 
are  loved  for  their  own  sakes." 

It  pleases  Vanessa  to  treat  her  friend's  brother  in  a  matronly, 
rather  patronizing  manner, 

"  Fancy/'  she  says,  smiling,  "  a  handsome  and  charming  young 
man  being  so  diffident  about  himself  I" 

"You  are  very  good  to  say  anything  so  kind,'  he  return*, 
with  a  slight  accent  of  disappointment. 


f  HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  103 

There  is  nothing  so  provoking  to  a  man  as  a  woman  who  will 
be  friendly  and  sisterly  when  he  does  not  demand  that  sort  of 
interest  from  her. 

44  You  have  no  sister,  have  you?'   he  asks,  presently. 

-'  No.  I  am  an  only  child  " 

'*  I  wish  you  would  find  me  some  one  to  love,'  he  says,  com 
ing  a  little  nearer  to. her,  "Tell  me,  have  you  no  friend  who 
you  think  would  answer  to  my  ideal?" 

Vanessa  muses.  Naturally  her  thoughts  11  y  first  to  the  friends 
of  her  girlhood.  Edith  and  Mabel.  But  Edith's  heart  is  already 
engaged,  and  Mabel  would  certainly  not  suit  Lord  Rayenhold, 
who  looks  for  both  passion  and  sympathy. 

"Do  you  think."  he  asks,  softlv,  ''that  marriage  is  really  a 
good  thing  ?  Is  one  happier  married  ?"  and  she  answers  without 
a  moment's  hesitation; 

44  Oh,  much,  much  happier!" 

Ravenhold  leans  back  and  sighs  again.  It  does  seem  rather 
hard  luck  that  with  his  youth,  his  ardor,  his  handsome  person, 
he  should  never  be  able  to  win  such  love  from  a  young  and 
beautiful  woman  as  this  middle-aged  wine  merchant  enjoys.  It 
occurs  to  him  that  it  might  be  well  to  make  the  round  of 
country  vicarages,  incognito,  on  the  chance  of  picking  up  such 
another  pearl. 

"  How  silent  you  ai;e!"  says  Vanessa,  gayly.  "*•  What  are  you 
thinking  about?" 

"  I  was  thinking  what  luck  some  men  have!"  he  answers,  with 
another  sigh. 

She  laughs,  knowing  quite  well  what  he-  means  to  imply,  but 
her  heart  is  her  husband's,  and  she  has  growrn  used  to  the  little 
ways  of  the  jdtncstse  doree  who  hang  around  her.  She  takes 
Ravenhold's  compliments  and  innuendoes  like  other  men's, 

"  We  ought  to  be  looking  out  for  our  party,"  she  says.  "  I 
don't  think  you  will  fulfill  your  promise  of  taking  me  home  in 
time  to  dress  for  the  ball.'' 

4*~Do  not  go!"  he  whispers,  putting  out*a*  hand  as  though  to 
detain  her;  then,  as  if  suddenly  changing  his  mind,  he  says 
abruptly,  rising  too,  "  Yes,  I  dare  say  we  had  better  go." 

As  they  step  on  the  gravel  path,  they  confront  a  tall  Uiin  man 
and  a  young  lady.  The  former  is  Sir  Bertram. 

Ravenhold  is  just  bending  to  say  something  to  Vanessa— his 
manner  is  distinctly  imprcsse.  Sir  Bertram  stops  suddenly, 
looks  at  the  pair  and  addresses  them.  He  has  passed  Vanessa 
fifty  times  in  the  Row  without  the  smallest  recognition — to-night 
he  greets  her  like  an  old  friend. 

"'Mrs.  Brandon — this  is  an  unexpected  pleasure.  How  are 
you.  Ravenhold?" 

Vanessa  is  so  taken  by  surprise  that  she  responds  as  though 
they  were  still  on  the  same  friendly  terms  as  last  year  before 
she  gave  him  mortal  offense.  Besides,  she  feels  no  rancor,  and 
is  rather  glad  that  the  old  gentleman  should  show  a  disposition 
to  be  friendly. 

Ravenhold.  who  is  acquainted  with  Sir  Bertram's  companion, 


104  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

enters  into  conversation  with  her,  and  a  minute  later,  Colonel 
Dallas  and  John  Brandon  come  up. 

Sir  Bertram  greets  both  with  extreme  affability.  Before  they 
part,  he  has  asked  for  Mrs.  Brandon's  address  and  permission  to 
call  upon  her,  which  she  readily  accords. 

The  drive  home  through  the  balmy  night  is  delicious,  even 
though  the  road  is  ugly  and  unpicturesque.  The  pair  on  the 
box-seat  are  not  very  talkative.  Vanessa  is  thinking  in  her 
heart  that,  to  make"  her  happiness  complete, .Brandon  ought  to 
be  beside  her  — Brandon  as  he  was  last  year— when  they  whis- 
pered all  sorts  of  foolish,  incoherent  love-words  to  each  other. 
Kavenhold  is  rather  silent  and  a  trifle  sulky.  He  has  the  woman 
beside  him  he  most  covets,  but— but,  she  will  not  answer  to  his 
humor — she  will  not  even  flirt  with  him  nor  make  believe  in  the 
very  least.  Fenced  and  walled  round  as  she  is  by  the  love  of 
her  husband,  she  is  as  far  from  him  as  though  she  were  inside 
Paradise  and  he  standing  outside  the  gate.  Yet  when  now  and 
again  his  eyes  meet  hers,  there  is  a  half-soft,  half-passionate 
look  in  them,  which,  even  if  he  has  evoked  it,  is  not  for  him. 
The  world,  that  would  seem  to  a  looker-on  to  wag  so  well  with 
this  favored  young  Adonis,  appears  a  sorry  enough  place  to  him 
just  now — it  is  a  place,  he  "would  tell  you  to-night,  where  you 
are  allowed  to  have  glimpses  of  delight  and  pleasure  only  to 
accentuate  the  misery  of  not  being  able  to  grasp  them.  He  is 
vexed,  dissatisfied — he  wishes  he  had  taken  his  sister's  advice 
and  left  Mrs.  Brandon  quite  alone — after  to-night  he  will.  They 
are  nearing  the  Marble  Arch,  and  Vanessa  says,  in  tones  of 
most  genuine  regret: 

"  How  sorry  I  am  that  we  are  getting  near  home!" 

He  stoops  toward  her  and  says  in  a  very  low  voice,  but  with  a 
bitter  accent: 

"Why  should  you  be  sorry?  You  are  going  home  to  hap- 
piness. It  is  I  who  am  left  out  in  the  cold." 

She  answers  him  gayly  enough. 

4 '  I  will  do  as  you^&sked  me  and  look  out  for  a  nice  wife  for 
you;  then  you  won'toe  left  out  in  the  cold." 

He  does  not  reply — she  is  not  so  sympathetic  as  she  looks,  her 
gay  tone  jars  upon  him. 

But,  in  reality,  Vanessa  is  feeling  intensely  sentimental. 
When  she  and  her  husband  have  wished  Ravenhold  good-night, 
and  thanked  him  for  their  pleasant  evening,  she  does  not,  late  as 
it  is,  hurry  off  to  dress  for  the  ball,  but  follows  her  husband  into 
his  comfortable  smoking-room.  She  throws  her  arms  round  his 
neck — she  is  in  a  mood  for  endearments — she  pushes  him  gently 
into  a  chair  and  seats  herself  on  his  knee.  He  responds  to  her 
caress  in  a  kind,  friendly,  semi-paternal  manner,  then  glancing 
at  the  clock,  says: 

4  •  My  dear  child,  pray  go  and  dress,  or  we  shall  not  get  to 
Orosvenor  Square  till  daylight!" 

She  starts  up  with  a  petulant  gesture  which  he  has  never  seen 
before  and  scarcely  realizes  nowr.  As  she  mounts  the  stairs,  a 
sob  is  choking  her,  two  great  tears  are  shining  in  her  eyes;  a 
sense  of  bitterest  disappointment  gnaws  her  heart.  She  would 


J    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  105 

like  to  give  vent  to  her  feelings  by  a  passion  of  tears  and  sobs, 
but  in  her  room  stands  her  attentive  maid  availing  to  dress  her, 
and  she  is  forced  to  choke  back  her  sobs,  don  a  falsely  placid  face, 
and  act  like  a  sensible  and  well  mannered  lady  instead  of  a 
pettish  child  who  does  not  know  what  it  is  crying  for. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  feels  bitter  against  her  hus- 
band, She  tells  herself  with  an  aching  heart,  as  she  sits  under 
the  hands  o*f  her  maid,  that  he  is  tired  of  her,  that  he  is  not 
really  fond  of  her  any  longer — and  she  remembers  with  painful 
distinctness  Ravenhold's  words: 

4 'There  is  only  one  thing  worth  having  in  the  world — love, 
passionate  love;  not  a  mere  paltry  fancy,  which  soon  subsides 
into  an  easy-going  liking,  or  else  into  indifference,  but  a  love 
that  occupies  every  moment  of  one's  life;  that  keeps  every  nerve 
full  strung;  a  love  that  is  heaven  or  hell,  but,  as  I  would  have  it, 
heaven."  Yes,  that  is  what  she  too  desires. 


CHAPTER  XVIII.  ^ 

THE!  next  morning  Colonel  Dallas  came  to  escort  Vanessa  into 
the  Row,  He  was  feeling  a  little  bit  piqued  and  touchy,  but  she 
received  him  in  the  same  glad,  cordial  manner  as  usual.  It  was 
a  lovely  morning  with  a  delicious  breeze,  and  they  concluded  to 
walk.  The  colonel  had  been  thinking  seriously  of  reading  his 
lovely  friend  a  little  lecture,  and  was  trying  to  make  up  his  mind 
how  to  commence  the  attack.  He  did  not  want  exactly  to  find 
fault  with  her;  only  to  say  a  word  in  season,  the  u^ter  futility  of 
which  no  one  knew  better  than  himself.  Soon  after  they  had 
taken  their  chairs  under  the  shade  of  a  big  tree,  Lord  Ravenhold 
passed  them.  He  did  not  stop,  but  raised  his  hat  with  a  coldly 
polite  gesture.  Vanessa  remarked  nothing  unusual  in  his  man- 
ner, but  the  colonel,  whose  mind  was  quite  bent  on  the  relations 
between  his  nephew  and  Mrs.  Brandon,  did,  and  was  ill  pleased. 

"  Ravenhold  looks  rather  sulky,"  he  says,  broaching  his  theme 
far  more  broadly  and  directly  than  a  minute  ago  he  had  in- 
tended. "  What  did  you  do  to  him  last  night?" 

"  I!"  utters  Vanessa.  "  Nothing.  Lord  Ravenhold  and  I  are 
the  best  of  friends.  Our  ideas  agree  perfectly.  We  both  think 
there  is  nothing  in  the  world  worth  having  but  love,  and  I  am 
going  to  find  him  a  wife." 

The  colonel  feels  and  looks  as  if  a  yawning  chasm  had  opened 
at  his  feet. 

"  Oh,"  he  says,  and  for  the  moment  he  can  positively  find 
nothing  else  to  remark. 

A  slight  melancholy  pervades  Vanessa's  features — her  own 
words  have  brought  back  that  vague  yearning  and  the  sense  of 
disappointment  she  felt  last  night.  The  colonel,  looking  at  her, 
observes  her  expression,  and  it  displeases  him  amazingly. 

"  I  don't  think,"  he  remarks,  in  a  short,  dry  tone,  "  that  you 
have  very  much  to  coniplain  of  on  that  score." 

"  It"  she  exclaims,  with  a  surprised  look  followed  by  a  swift 
blush _  "J3ut,  my  dear  colonel,  jov  don't  understand.  Lord 


10a  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. "" 

Ravenhold  is  so  jealous  of  my  happiness  that  lie  wants  to  get 
married  at  once  that  he  may  be  happy  too." 

Again  the  colonel  can  only  find  the  same  interjection  where- 
with to  express  his  thoughts. 

'•  I  don't  think,  my  lady  v  (this  is  a  favorite  mode  of  address  of 
the  colonel's  to  Vanessa) — '•  I  don't  think,  my  lady,"  he  observes 
after  a  pause,  "  that  love  is  a  very  desirable*  topic  of  conversa- 
tion between  two  handsome  young  people  like  you  and  my" 
nephew.  And.  if  you  will  forgive  my  saying  so,  I  do  not  think 
it  will  do  you  an}*  good  to  be  seen  philandering  about  by  moon- 
light or  starlight,  whatever  it  is,  with  a  man  who  enjoys  such  a 
reputation  for  being  inflammable  as  Ravenhold." 

Now  if  Vanessa's  conscience  had  been  in  the  very  least  bit 
i  guilty  she  would  have  felt  rather  angry  with  the  colonel  for  this 
remark,  but  it  is  perfectly  clear  and  innocent. 

"  Then  why  did  you  go  away  and  leave  us?"  she  asks  gayly; 
i4 1  should  have  liked  your  company  just  as  much." 

"  Would  you  :'"  he  says  doubtfully.  '•  Ravenhold  is  consid- 
ered a  ve^y  dangerous  young  fellow,  and  people  will  talk.  And," 
looking  narrowly  at  her,  '•  it  is  a  literal  impossibility  to  him  to 
be  with  a  pretty  woman  and  not  to  make  love  to  her." 

4i  He  did  not  make  love  to  me,"  answers  Vanessa,  simply. 
"  But  then  he  knows  that  I  am  a  country  girl  and  that  I  adore 
my  husband." 

''  And  yet  he  talked  to  you  of  love  ':"' 

"Yes,"  returns  Vanessa,  frankly.  "  He  said,"  and  here  her 
eyes  take  rather  a  pensive,  far-off  expression — ''  he  said  that  there 
was  only  one  thing  in  life  worth  having,  and  that  was  passion- 
ate love;  love  that  occupies  all  your  heart  and  thoughts  and 
leaves  room  for  nothing  else.  And  I  agree  with  him." 

"  Ah!"  observes  the  colonel,  with  extreme  dryness,  "  I  suppose 
that  after  listening  to  his  exalted  sentiments-  you  would  find 
mine  very  flat  and  commonplace.  But,  all  the  same,  let  me  give 
you  the  result  of  my  experience. 

"  The  sentiment  about  which  he  said  such  fine  things  and  you 
agreed  with  him,  is  not  love  at  all,  but  a  much  coarser  thing— 
passion.  You  may  etherealize  it  in  your  mind  (I  think  women 
do),  but  he  does  not;  he  knows  what  he  means.  Passion  does 
not  last;  it  cannot — its  very  intensity  makes  it  ephemeral — it  can 
be  repeated  with  another  object;  but  if  you  imagine  that  one 
man  can  go  on  feeling  equal  ardor  for  the  same  woman  for  any 
length  of  time,  you  are  likely  to  go  aground  on  the  rock  that  has 
shipwrecked  so  many  of  your  sex.  Let  me  tell  you  what  love 
is.  Love  is  what  your  husband  feels  for  you  and  will  feel  to  the 
day  of  his  death." 

Vanessa  experiences  a  sensation  of  uneasiness.  Has  she  be- 
trayed the  tinge  of  disappointment  which  has  crept  into  her 
heart  now  and  again  during  the  last  few  months  and  found  its 
first  serious  expression  only  the  night  before  ? 

4  •  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  cries.  "Do  you  think  I  do  not 
know  it  ?  Do  you  think  I  do  not  know  I  have  the  best  husband 
in  the  world  ?  Why,  it  was  the  sight  of  our  hs>pp;Mess  that  made 
Lord  Rftvej}hold  want  to  marry."1 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  107 

44  I  suppose,"  says  the  colonel,  pointedly,  "  he  wanted  to  marry 
if  he  could  find  just  such  another  woman  as  you.'' 

Vanessa  laughs. 

"  My  dear  colonel,"  she  asks,  "  what  is  the  matter  with  you.? 
Did  your  dinner  last  night  disagree  with  you?  You  know  you 
have  told  ine  that  everything  is  a  matter  of  digestion,  and  that 
foie  gras  would  at  any  time  inspire  you  with  a  universal  distrust 
and  hatred  of  your  kind." 

"  There  was  no  pate  last  night,"  answers  the  colonel,  "  and  I 
carefully  avoided  cream,  ice,  and  strawberries.  No,  this  time 
it  is  not  my  digestion." 

4  *  Then  why  do  you  insist  that  Lord  Ravenhold  and  I  shall  fall 
in  love  with  each  other?" 

"God'  forbid,"  exclaims  the  colonel,  devoutly.  "I  did  not 
«ven  hint  at  anything  of  the  sort.  Only  I  don't  recommend 
moonlight  walks  with  him  and  conversation  about  love." 

"  Very  well,"  says  Vanessa,  anxious  to  restore  his  good  humor, 
14  in  future  I  shall  walk  about  with  you.  Only  you  are  not  to 
scold  me." 

"Scold  you,  my  dear  child!  Nothing  is  further  from  'my 
thoughts.  "I  should  not  presume  to  take  such  a  liberty." 

Vanessa's  eyes,  straying  down  the  path,  observe  Lord  Raven- 
hold  and  Sir  Bertram  engaged  in  conversation  at  a  little  distance 
from  them:  she  sees  them  part,  and  then  Sir  Bertram  comes  to- 
ward her.  He  stops  in  front  of  her,  holds  out  his  hand,  and 
smiles.  It  can  scarcely  be  called  a  smile,  it  is  rather  a  spasm  of 
the  upper  lip,  as  if  some  one  had  pulled  a  wire  in  his  side — a 
spasm  revealing  his  long,  yellowish  teeth.  He  greets  Colonel 
Dallas  also.  The  colonel  returns  the  salute  rather  frigidly,  and 
looks  away  up  the  Row  in  a  manner  that  intimates  his  intention 
of  effacing  himself  until  Sir  Bertram  shall  have  said  his  say  to 
Mrs.  Brandon.  Sir  Bertram  thereupon  coolly  takes  the  seat  be- 
side Vanessa. 

"I  want  you  to  come  down  and  dine  with  me  at  my  little 
place  on  the  river,"  he  says,  in  his  most  affable  tones,  "  you  and 
Mr.  Brandon.  Can  you  spare  mean  evening  this  week  ?  Would 
Saturday  suit  you  ?" 

Now  Vanessa  does  not  enjoy  the  society  of  Sir  Bertram,  nor 
does  the  idea  of  dining  with  him  inspire  any  pleasure  in  her 
breast;  but  she  is  very  anxious  to  be  civil  to  him,  and  to  atone 
in  every  way  in  her  power  for  having  once  hurt  his  feelings. 
So  she  puts  on  her  prettiest  smile  and  says: 

"We  are  not  engaged  on  Saturday,  and  we  should  like  it  very 
much  indeed." 

"I  must  try  to  get  my  nieces  to  meet  you,"  utters  Sir  Ber- 
tram, well  aware  of  the  attractive  bait  he  is  offering.  "Have 
you  heard  that  Mabel  is  engaged  to  be  married  V" 

"No!"  exclaims  Vanessa,  eagerly.  "Is  it  to "and  then 

she  pauses, 

"It  is  to  Sir  Thomas  Belton,"  answers  Sir  Bertram.  "We 
are  pleased  with  the  marriage.  There  is  ratker  a  disparity  of 
age  between  her  and  Sir  Thomas,  but  that  is  not  always  a  draw- 
back, is  it,  Mrs.  Brandon?" 


108  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

And  again  he  has  a  spasm  of  the  upper  lip. 

Vanessa  is  somewhat  confused;  she  scarcely  knows  how  Jo 
reply  to  this  badinage  on  Sir  Bertram's  part,  and  she  cannot 
otter  any  cprdizd  congratulations  for  Mab,  remembering  the  de- 
scription given  of  the  bridegroom-elect  and  his  black  tooth. 

"  I  shall  be  so  delighted  to  see  them  again,"  she  says,  hastily. 

"And  do  you  like  London?"  asks  Sir  Bertram/  "Does  it 
answer  your  expectations  ?" 

"  Quite.  I  find  it  charming,"  Vanessa  answers.  "  But  I  am 
looking  forward  immensely  to  going  home  again.  It  seems 
years  since  I  left." 

"Oh!  We  are  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you ?  That  will 
be  something  to  look  forward  to.  And  when  is  your  visit  fixed 
for?" 

"  We  are  going  down  on  the  1st  of  August  for  two  months. 
My  husband  cannot  get  away  before  then." 

"Ah!  business  must  be  attended  to/1  and  Sir  Bertram  gives 
his  most  repulsive  smile. 

"  Yes,"  replies  Vanessa,  not  wincing  in  the  least.  It  is  quite 
true  that  she  would  rather  her  husband  was  not  in  business;  but 
she  is  not  ashamed  of  it. 

"  Then,"  says  Sir  Bertram,  rising,  "  I  may  look  forward  to 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  both  on  Saturday.  Will  you  drive 
down  about  six,  so  as  to  have  a  little  time  on  the  water  first  ?" 

"  I  will  ask  my  husband,  and  send  you  a  line,  if  I  may,"  re- 
plies Vanessa. 

"Yes,  praj-  do;  but  mind,  I  look  upon  it  already  as  an  en- 
gagement." 

Sir  Bertram  says  this  with  stiff  playfulness,  takes  Mrs.  Bran- 
don's hand,  gives  a  frigid  tyow  to  Colonel  Dallas,  and  goes. 

"  I  hate  that  man!"  utters  the  colonel,  as  soon  as  he  is  out  of 
ear-shot.  "  He  is  a  cold-blooded,  vindictive  brute." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  he  is  vindictive,"  Vanessa  replies. 

"Isn't  he?  Just  look  at  his  face!  Besides,  I  know  half  a 
dozen  instances  of  it.  He  never  forgives  an  injury,  nor  even  a 
small  offense." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  does,"  says  Vanessa.  "  I  offended  him  very 
much,  and  you  see  he  is  quite  kind  and  pleasant  to  me." 

"  He  is  biding  his  time,"  observes  the  colonel.  "  Pray,  my 
lady,-  how  did  you  offend  him  ?"  looking  curiously  at  hsr.  "  And 
where  did  you  ever  meet  mm  ?" 

"  He  was  our  squire." 

"  Did  he  want  to  make  you  squiress?" 

Vanessa  colors  a  little  and  laughs. 

"  What  an  idea!"  she  says,  evasively. 

"  Then  look  out,"  observes  the  colonel,  significantly.  "  Has 
he  been*friendly  with  you  ever  since  ?" 

"  He  has  not  spoken  to  me  until  last  night  for  nearly  a  year." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  cut  you  and  has  just  taken 
you  up  again  ?" 

"  Yes,"  says  Vanessa,  nodding  her  head. 

"  Then,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  not  be  taken  up  now." 

*'  Oh,  poor  old  man!    Why  not  ?"  smiles  Vanessa,     "  And  I  am 


/    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  109 

only  too  glad  to  be  friendly  to  him  on  account  of  his  grand- 
daughters, who  used  to  be  my  greatest  friends?" 

"  I  wonder  what  his  game  is?"  says  the  colonel,  ruminating. 

"  No  game  at  all,  my  dear  colonel,"  laughs  Vanessa.  "  What 
a  suspicious  mood  you  are  in !  Do  you  think  he,  like  Lord  Raven- 
hold,  wants  to  supplant  my  husband  ?  I  promise  you  not  to  talk 
about  love  to  him  nor  to  take  a  moonlight  stroll  with  him  if  I 
can  help  it." 

The  colonel  traces  an  elaborate  pattern  with  his  stick — he  is 
still  absorbed  in  speculating  about  the  nature  of  the  squire's 
game. 

Lord  Ravenhold  passes  them  again.  This  time  he  is  walking 
with  a  very  handsome  girl.^ttvwhoni  he  appears  to  be  making 
himself  extremely  agreeable. 

The  colonel  gives  up  thinking  about  Sir  Bertram's  game  in 
order  to  study  his  nephew's.  That  takes  very  little  thought— he 
'wishes  to  pique  Mrs.  Brandon.  The  attempt  is  an  utter  failure. 

"  There!"  whispers  Vanessa,  with  an  accent  of  triumph  that  is 
thoroughly  genuine.  ' '  You  see  he  has  reflected  about  my  advice. 
I  wish  he  would  marry  Lady  Violet." 

*'  Pooh!"  says  the  colonel.  **  If  he  married  all  the  women  he 
looked  at  in  that  languishing  manner,  he  would  have  as  many 
wives  as  Solomon  by  now.  And,  fond  as  I  am  of  the  lad,  I 
don't  think  I  shall  envy  the  woman  very  much  whom  he  makes 
Lady  Ravenhold." 

"  Why  not?"  asks  Vanes%a.  "  He  is  very  handsome  and  verj 
nice." 

"  Yes,"  responds  the  colonel.  "  And  he  will  go-on  being  very 
handsome  and  very  nice  after  he  is  married." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

**  Cannot  you  interpret  my  parable,  my  lady?" 

"  You  mean  that  he  will  be  nice  to  other  people  as  well  as  his 
wife."  hazards  Vanessa. 

"I  do,"  and  the  colonel  emphasizes  his  remark  by  a  nod. 
"Tell  me,"  he  continues,  ''you  were  very  quietly  brought  up, 
and,  I  suppose,  with  the  proper  old-1t,shioned»ideas,  how  does 
our  state  of  society  strike  you  ?  You  must  have  had  your  eyes 
considerably  opened  the  last  three  montjis." 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  it,"  answers  Vanessa,  looking 
ra?ther  nuzzled. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  right  for  married  people^to  go  philander- 
ing  about  as  if  they  were  not  mafried  ?" 

"  No,"  hesitates  Vanessa — "  only " 

"Only  what?" 

"  If  two  people  are  devoted  to  each  other  it  cannot  do  any 
harm,s  because  although  you  may  like  to  talk  to  other  men  you 
only  care  for  one." 

"  But  when  people  are  not  devoted?" 

"  Then  they  ought  not  to  marry,"  returns  Vanessa,  promptly. 
tft  That  is  what  is  so  wrong.  I  am  quite  unhappy  to  think  of 
Mab  marrying  that  dreadful  old  man.  How  can  she?" 

"  Have  you  seen  him?" 

-No." 


110  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

"  He  is  not  at  all  a  dreadful  old  man.  He  is  Not  older  than— 
let  me  see — than  Brandon;  and  he  is  a  thorough  good  fellow, 
and  will  let  her  have  all  her  own  way.  I  think  she  is  a  very 
sensii  i"  young  lady," 

"Oil!"  litters  Vanessa,  relieved.  Still  she  cannot  forget  the 
black  tooth 

"**  Bat."  says  the  colonel,  who  has  not  yet  got  his  sermon  off 
his  mind,   "I  don't   quite   agree  with  you.     I  think    harm 
come   of    this   freedom   between   young   people,   even  when   a 
woman  is  devoted  to  her  husband." 

"  How?"  asks  Vaiiess,  opening  her  eyes. 

The  colonel  hesitates.  Shall  he  speak  or  shall  he  forbear? 
Will  he  be  putting  thoughts  into  her  head,  instead  of  keeping 
them  out,  as  he  anxiously  desires  to  do  ? 

"  Well,  look  here,  my  lady,"  he  says,  gazing  carefully  at  the 
hieroglyphs  he  is  still  employed  in  tracing,  '•  even  if  a  woman  is 
devoted  to  her  husband,  there  'are  times  when — when  perhaps 
she  feels  a  little  put  out  with  him.  He  is  not  quite  so  attentive 
or  so  demonstrative  as  she  thinks  he  ought  to  be,  and  she  gets  a 
little  bit froissee  or  disappointed.-  Then,  you  know,  if  some 
good-looking  young  fellow  is  hanging  about  telling  her  that  she  • 
is  quite  the  most  angelic  creature  in  the  world,  and  hinting  per- 
haps that  she  is  not  appreciated,  and  that  if  she  were  his  wife— 
well,  Irm!  don't  you  see ?" 

Vanessa  laughs,  not  quite  easily — the  first  j)art  of  his  sentence 
has  gone  home,  but  not  the  last. 

"  My  dear  colonel," -she  says.  "  do  not  put  these  ideas  into  my 
head,  or  I  shall  begin  to  think  it  is  dangerous  to  my  peace  of 
mind  to  see  so  much  of  you.  You  know  you  are  always  praising 
and  flattering  me.  I  shall  have  to  be  on  my  guard." 

"  Yes,  there  is  no  doubt  I  am  a  very  dangerous  fellow,"  re- 
turns the  colonel.  He  has  said  his  say-and  does  not  care  to  pur- 
sue the  subject  any  further.  "Do  you  know,"  looking  at  his 
watch,  *•*  that  it  is  ten  minutes  to  two  ?" 

'•*  We  must  go  home  to  lunch/'  says  Vanessa,  rising  promptly. 

When  she  tell*  her  husfiand  of  the  invitation  for  Saturday,  he 
remarks,  cheerily: 

•*  You  were  quite  right,  my  dear.  I  cannot  say  I  like  Sir 
Bertram.  He  was  extremely  rude  to  me  last  year;  but,  poor 
old  fellow,  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at.  It  will  be  nice  for  you 
to  see  your  friends  again." 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  look  forward  to  it."  cries  Vanessa.  "  I 
am  very  fond  of  Mrs.  Fane,  but  I  have  known  them  all  my  life; 
they  are  more  to  me  than  any  new  friend  could  be.". 

"  Naturally."  replies  Brandon. 

The  next  day  Vanessa  and  Mrs.  Fane  go  to"  a  garden  party  at 
Kensington  together.  They  are  standing  with  two  or  three  men 
grouped  round  them,  when  Lady  Mildred  passes.  She  has  al- 
ways been  very  civil  to  Mrs,  Brandon,  who,  up  to  this  moment, 
is  in  blissful  ignorance  of  having  offended  her.  Vanessa  makes 
a  step  forward  with  a  smiling  face  and  outstretched  hand. 
JLady  Mildred  meets  her  with  £  stare,  a  ohilling  bow,  and 
passes  on. 


/    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  Ill 

111  a  moment  Vanessa  is  crimson  with   mortification  and  be- 
wilderment;   she  is  not  used  to  being  snubbed,   and    feels  the" 
slight  intensely— all  the  more,  perhaps,  because  she  is  entirely 
ignorant  of  its  motive. 

Mrs.  Fane's  ready  tact  diverts  attention,  but  the  episode  has 
been  witnessed  by  at  least  four  or  five  persons,  who  more  easily 
understand  it  than  does  Mrs.  Brandon. 

Half  an  hour  later,  as  she  and  Mrs.  Fane  are  driving  home  to- 
gether, Vanessa  says  to  her  friend: 

"Why  did  Lady  Mildred  behave  so  rudely  to  me?  I  will 
never,  never  look  at  nor  speak  to  her  again." 

Mrs.  Fane  does  not  answer  for  a  moment.  Then,  as  Vanessa's 
eyes  are  still  fixed  in  eager  inquiry  on  her  face. 'she  says: 

44  Don't  you  really  know?    Have  you  no  suspicion  ?" 

*•  No,"  answers  Vanessa,  truthfully. 

Another  pause. 

"At  all  events,  you  knt>w  that  she  considers  Gerard  her  prop- 
erty ':" 

"  Yes."  Vanessa  certainly  knows  so  much  in  common  with 
the  rest  of  the  world. 

A  third  pause. 

"  Well,"  says  Mrs.  Fane,  reluctantly,  "  she  thinks  you  want  to 
take  him  away  from  her." 

Then  Vanessa,  firTding  words  too  poor  to  express  her  surprise 
and  anger,  leans  back  in  the  carriage,  and  utters  not  another 
word.  She  is  beginning  to  see  the  reverse  of  the  medallion. 
The  world  and  society  had  seemed  a  sort  of  paradise  to  her;  she 
had  sipped  the  pleasant  surface,  and  until  now  had  tasted  none 
of  the  dregs  of  hatred,  envy,  and  jealousy  which  more  than 
three  parts  fill  its  cup.  She  lias  felt  a  friendly  liking  for  Lord 
Ravenhold,  and  every  one  insists. on  believing  that  she  entertains 
sentiments  for  him  which  are  furthest  from  her  brain;  she  feels 
as  though  she  never  wants  to  see  him  again. 

Mrs.  Fane  guesses  something  of  what  is  passing  in  her  mind. 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  it,  my  dear,'"  she  says,  kindly. 
"  But  take  my  advice  and  do  not  dance  much  with  Gerard  or 
see  much  of  him;  he  is  a  nice,  dear  boy,  but,  all  the  same,  I  don't 
want  to  have  you  affichee  with  him." 

"  I  suppose,"  observes  Vanessa,  with  a  bitterness  quite  foreign 
to  her,  "  that  in  society  no  one  can  believe  in  a  woman  preferring 
her  husband  to  even  so  handsome  and  distinguished  a  person  as 
Lord  Ravenhold." 

"  No.  my  dear/'  returns  Mrs.  Fane,  simply;  "  that  is  just 
it." 

The  same  evening  Mrs.  Brandon  and  Lord  Ravenhold  meet  at 
a  ball.  He  asks  her  to  dance;  she  smiles  civilly — he  does  not 
know  howT  her  heart  is  beating — and  pleads  other  engage- 
ments. He  presses  her  with  some  urgency;  she  grants  him  a 
waltz  later  on;  when  the  time  arrives  she  is  nowrhere  to  be 
found.  Most  men  are"  stimulated  by  opposition,  none  more 
than  Lord  Ravenhold.  He  is  on  his  mettle;  he  begins  to  feel  as 
though  his  honor  were  somewhat  involved  in  the  matter. 

On  the  Saturday  fixed  for  Vanessa's  visit  to  Sir  Bertram,  she 


112  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

is  in  a  state  of  restless  excitement — she  is  longing  to  see  her  old 
friends;  several  times  she  has  been  on  the  point  of  writing  to 
them,  but  has  thought  it  better  to  wait  for  their  meeting  undei 
Sir  Bertram's  auspices.  Her  heart  beats  quite  fast, as  they  drivi 
up  to  the  door  of  his  river- side  chateau.  They  are  ushered  into 
the  drawing-room;  a  moment  later^  their  host  steps  in  at  the 
French  windows  opening  on  the  lawn. 

"  Are  Edith  and  Mabel  here  ?"  asks  Vanessa,  as  soon  as  she  has 
greeted  him  with  the  usual  formula. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  he  answers,  "  they  are  uAable  to  come." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  he  has  not  invited  them,  nor  mentioned 
Mrs.  Brandon's  name  to  them. 

"  I  asked  two  or  three  pleasant  people  to  meet  you,"  he  con; 
tinues,  "  but  at  this  time  of  the  year  it  is  impossible  to  get  any 
6one  at  a  short  notice.  You  will  find  one  friend,  however." 

And,  as  he  speaks,  Lord  Ravenhold  comes  strolling  up  the 
lawn. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

VANESSA'S  disappointment  is  ^o  severe,  that  it  appeal's  legibly 
on  her  face.  And  it  is  not  in  the  leasteatoned  for  by  the  sight  of 
Lord  Ravenhold,  whose  name  has  lately  been  made  a  weariness 
to  her  flesh.  She  greets  him  in  an  indifferefct  manner  very  for- 
eign to  her  habitual  one.  He,  on  the  contrary  looks  pleased  and 
smiling,  and  is  evidently  anxious  to  make  himself  agreeable. 
When',  at  Sir  Bertram's  proposal,  the  party  betake  themselves  to 
the  boat,  Vanessa  devotes  her  conversation  entirely  to  her  host, 
and  her  husband  and  his  lordship  are  left  to  entertain  each 
other. 

It  is  quite  possible  that  Vanessa  has  a  temper,  although  she 
has  advanced  so  far  through  her  earthly  pilgrimage  without 
having  had  occasion  to  make  use  of  it.  Up  to  the  present  time 
there  has  been  no  one  to  vex  or  cross  her,  or  to  raise  any  spirit 
of  antagonism  in  her.  This  evening  she  feels  distinctly,  cross 
and  put  out,  and  the  sensation  is  as  unpleasant  to  her  as  though 
she  had  a  headache  for  the  first  time.  She  partially  recovers 
herself  at  dinner,  but  it  is  still  not  quite  the  charming,  genial 
Mrs.  Brandon  whose  graciousness  is  one  of  her  chief  attractions. 
Certainly  when  she  speaks  to  her  husband  there  is  more  than 
her  usual  sweetness  both  of  words  and  looks;  he  therefore  does 
not  observe  that  there  is  anything  amiss. 

Dinner  over,  she  adjourns  to  the  drawing-room,  but  does  not 
remain  there  long,  seeing  the  river  shining  temptingly  at  the  end 
of  the  lawn.  She  strolls  out  and  seats  herself  on  a  bench  close 
to  the  "water's  edge.  It  is  full  tide  now;  the  plash  of  occasional 
oars  greets  her  ears  pleasantly,  the  rushing  sound  of  water  from 
the  not  far  distant  weir  soothes  her.  The  moon  is  just  rising; 
everything  is  lovely  and  peaceful;  the  charm  of  the  scene  ap- 
peals to  Vanessa's  senses,  and  yet  something  oppresses  her  and 
prevents  her  from  feeling  quite  happy.  She  is  still  laboring 
under  the  disappointment  of  not  meeting  her  cherished  friends; 
although  she  openly  expressed  to  Sir  Bertram  at  dinner 


t    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  113 

6_  .ttwi-0  -aem  soon,  he  scarcely  responded  and  turned  the  sub- 
ject. Then  she  is  ill  pleased  at  Lord  Raven  hold  being  here;  it 
looks  as  if  their  host  were  also  under  the  impression  that  his  society 
is  pleasing  to  her.  She  had  liked  him  very  much  until  every  one 
conspired  to  point  out  to  her  that  she  was  in  danger  of  falling  in 
love  with  him ;  now  she  feels  rather  aggrieved  against  him  and 
extremely  anxious  to  show  him  that  she  is  not  in  the  smallest 
peril  of  becoming  a  victim  to  his  fascinations.  She  has  been  sit- 
ting by  the  water-side  but,  a  very  few  minutes,  as  she  thinks,  9 
when  Lord  Ravenhold  comes  with  a  buoyant  step  across  the* 
turf  to  join  her.  His  manner  is  altogether  Jubilant  and  tri- 
umphant; he  carries  his  head  well  up,  his  eyes^are  alight  with 
pleasure. 

But  for  the  monitions  of  the  colonel  and  Mrs.  Fane,  coupled 
with  Lady  Mildred's  insolent  behavior,  Vanessa  would  have 
greeted  him  with  her  best  smile  of  welcome.  As  it  is,  she  feels 
secretly  irritated,  and  her  face  denotes  neither  pleasure  nor 
satisfaction. 

"  How  delicious  it  is  here!''  he  exclaims.  "  It  is  a  shame  to  be 
indoors  such  a  night." 

"Where  are  the  others?"  asked  Vanessa,  coolly. 

**  The  others,"  replies  Lord  Ravenhold,  laughing,  "  are  drink- 
ing some  excellent  claret  and  discussing  with  enthusiasm  the 
merits  of  various  vintages. " 

-Oh!" 

A  small  boatffs  moored  to  the  steps  a  couple  of  yards  distant. 

'*  Let  us  go  on  the  water,"  cries  the  young  man,  eagerly.  "  It 
toill  be  heavenly  there." 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"  Are  you  afraid  to  trust  yourself  with  me  ?"  he  asks.  "  I  as- 
sure you  I  can  row — I  was  in  the  boats  at  Eton — I  can  swim  like 
a  duck  if  I  should  be  so  cluAsy  as  to  upset  you." 

"  No,  thank  you.     I  xyould  rather  not." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  do  not  care  about  it." 

"  But  I  heard  you  tell  Sir  Bertram  you  enjoyed  being  on  the 
Vvater  more  than  anything,"  says  Ravenhold,  insistently.  "  What 
are  you  afraid  of  ?  There  is  no  one  about  who  knows  us,  and  I 
should  not  have  thought  you  were  afraid  of  Mrs.  Grundy." 

"  I  do  not  suppose  any  one  is  afraid  of  Mrs.  Grundy  who  has 
not  the  very  smallest  reason  to  be  so,"  returns  Vanessa,  shooting 
rather  a  defiant  glance  at  him. 

*  "  Then  it  is  because  you  don't-care  for  my  company,"  says  the 
young  man,  with  some  petulance.  "Mrs.  Brandon!"  catching 
up  a  small  garden-seat  and  planting  himself  on  it  right  in  front 
of  her,  "  how  have  I  offended  you?  '  What  have  I  done  ?" 

"  Nothing  that  I  am  aware  of,"  she  says,  coldly,  still  feeling 
Unjustly  bitter  against  him.  "  Surely  my  not  caring  to  go  in  a 
boat  is  no  proof  of  my  being  offended  with  any  one. "  « 

Lord  Ravenhold  turns  away  to  conceal  his  mortification.  He 
sits  for  some  time  staring  at  the  water,  and  Vanessa  makes  no 
attempt  to  break  the  silence.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she 
feels  a  little  spiteful— this  presumptuous  youn^r  m^.Ti  has  dared 


1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

to  think,  as  well  as  his  relations,  that  his  society  is  pleasing  to 
her  and  that  she  is  ready  to  embark  on  a  flirtation  with  him. 
She  intends  to  convince  him  of  his  error. 

Lord  Ravenhold,  looking  up  suddenly  with  some  huffy  words 
on  his  lips,  is  silenced  by  her  beauty.  The  moon  is  shining  on 
her — her  lovely  eyes  are  looking  away  over  his  head — she  site 
there  in  her  graceful  white  draperies  looking  like  a  statue,  with 
«o  much  more  of  beauty  than  any  statue  because  of  the  deep 
color  of  her  eyes  and  the  beautiful  red  of  her  perfect  mouth. 
The  huffy  words  are  strangled  at  their  birth,  and  he  says,  very 
humbly: 

k%  I  thought  you  were  going  .to  be  my  friend  T 

"I  am  quite  willing  to  be  your  friend,  Lord  Ravenhold/' re- 
turns Mrs.  Brandon,  showing,  however,  no  disposition  at  pres- 
ent to  thaw. 

'•  If  you  knew,"  utters  Ravenhold,  fixing  his  eyes  on  her  and 
speaking  almost  passionately — "if  you  knew  how  badly  I  want 
a  friend,  and  how  much  the  friendship  of  a  good  woman  like 
you  might  do  for  me,  I  think  you  would  be  kinder  to  me.*' 

Before  this  appeal  the  ice  gives  way.  and  there  is  a  veryxnotice- 
able  difference  in  the  ^tone  of  Mrs.  Brandon's  rejoinder. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you?  I  should  be  glad  to  be  your  friend 
for  your  sister's  sake."' 

Lord  Ravenhold  would  like  to  reply  that  the  friendship  he 
desires  is  not  a  vicarious  one,  but  is  prudent?-  enough  to  re- 
frain. , 

••  I  am  not  happy."  he  says.  "  The  life  I  lead  does  not  satisfy 
me;  it  is  unnatural— it  is  all  wrong." 

Here  Vanessa  agrees  with  him  perfectly.  She  thinks  it  even 
more  wrong  since  Lady  Mildred's  treatment  of  Jier.  The 
answer  she  gives  him  is  a  little  trfc  and  cold,  as  he  feels  it  to 
be. 

*'  I  do  not  see  how  any  one  can  be  happy  when  they  are  doing 
what  they  know  to  be  wrong.  ' 

"Ah!"  he  says,  looking  very  hard  at  her,  "you  have  never 
been  tempted." 

li  No."  she  answers:  "  that  is  quite  true."        o 

"  Perhaps  you  may  be  some  day." 

••  Perhaps,"  she  returns,  stiffly.  "  It  does  not  seem  probable, 
though.  Having  married  the  man  I  love  best  in  the  world,  a 
man  whom  I  consider  superior  to  every  other,  there  is  not  much 
chance  of  my  being  tempted  to  care  for  any  o»«*  else." 

Each  is  conscious  that  a  little  passage  of  arms  is  going  on 
between  them. 

•v  It  is  dangerous  to  be  too  secure,"  remarked  Ravenhold. 
'*  Feelings  are  apt  to  change 

"  Are  they  ?    I  am  quite  sure  mine  will  not." 

Her  tone  is  defiant.  She  wishes  him  clearly  to  understand 
that  there  is  not  the  smallest  probability  of  her  ever  entertaining 
any  regard  for  him. 

He  is  piqued. 

••  We  shaJl  see,"  he  says,  with  a  smile  that  provokes  her  ex- 


t-tiAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.          .        115 

No  suitable  retort  offering  itself  to  her  mind,  and  not  wishing 
to  betray  that  she  is  nettled,  Vanessa  remarks,  indifferently: 

"How  lovely  the  moon  is  011  that  stretch  of  meadow!  It  re- 
minds me  of  the  nights  this  time  last  year.'' 

"  Only  then,  I  suppose,  you  were  enjoying  their  beauty  with  a 
congenial  companion.'' 

"  I  was,"  and  Vanessa  sighs,  not  to  provoke  him,  but  be- 
cause, for  the  moment,  she  is  recalling  that  happy  past  time,  and 
no  doubt  thinking  it,  as  we  are  all  prone  to  do,  even  more 
blessed  than  it  was. 

Th^re  is  a  pause.  Ravenhold  feels  indescribably  irritated;  he 
would  like  either  to  make  love  to  or  to  quarrel  outright  with 
her;  the  cool  hostility  of  her  manner  hurts  him — he  does  not 
feel  that  he  has  deserved  it. 

He  turns  and  looks  fixedly  atelier. 

"  If  you  are  so  happy,"  he  says,  in  a  half-injured,  half-re- 
sentful tone,  "it  ought  to  make  you  kinder  to  those  who  are  not 
equally  fortunate." 

Vanessa  smiles. 

••Why  are  you  not  happy?"  she  asks.  '"You  ought  to  be. 
You  have  everything  to  make  you  so.  You  are  a  lord,  you  are 
rich — you  are  a  handsome  young  man — they  tell  me  you  have 
only  to  look  at  a  woman  for  her  to  fall  desperately  in  love  with 
you." 

Her  last  speech,  with  its  thinly-veiled  sarcasm,  opens  his  eyes. 
He  grasps  the  situation  in  a  moment.  -  She  has  been  warned 
against  him.  In  his  inward  heart  he  curses  the  officious  med- 
dler who  has  done  him  so  much  harm,  none  the  less  because  he 
suspects  that  busybody  to  be  his  own  uncle. 

He  is  silent  for  a  moment;  then  he  utters  in  a  mortified  tone, 
looking  away  across  the  moonlit  water: 

"  No  wonder,  if  you  think  me  a  fool  and  a  puppy,  you  do  not 
care  to  be  friends  with  me.  ' 

Vanessa  is  instantly  smitten  with  remorse. 

'•I  do  not  think  anything  of  the  sort,"  she  says,  smiling  at 
him. 

"  Yes,  you  do,"  he  answers  impetuously.  "  You  have  proba- 
bly been  cautioned  against  me.  I  have  admired  and  respected 
you  more  than  any  woman  I  have  ever  met — the  thing  of  all 
others  that  charmed  me  in  you  was  your  devotion  to  your  hus- 
band, and  you  think  that  I  am  an  egotistical,  presumptuous  fool, 
who  is  only  to  be  restrained  from  making  love  to  you  by  the 
most  severe  and  constantly  repeated  snubs. 

He  has  taken  the  bull  by  the  horns  with  a  vc  ngeance  this  time, 
and  there  is  so  much  truth  in  his  words  and  so  much  dignity  in 
his  air  that  Vanessa  is  put  to  confusion.  She  is  induced  to  say 
what  her  better  judgment  wrould  certainly  not  have  approved 
had  she  given  it  time  to  counsel  her. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  she  exclaims,  impulsively.  "If  every 
one  insists  on  warning  me  against  you,  and  in  believing  that  if 
you  honor  me  by  your  notice  I  shall  straight  way  fall  in  love  with 
you,  how  am  I  to  convince  them  that  it  is  possible  for  a  woman, 
ev  n  4*  •  jsooiety,  even  in  the  age  we  liv.e  in,  to  prefer  her  own 


S16  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVEDT 

husband  to  the  handsomest  man,  or  the  most  exalted  personage 
alive?" 

"  I  should  have  thought  you  were  too  clever  to  be  influenced 
by  a  paclf  of  fools, "returns  Ravenhold.  "  I — I  suppose — that — 
Mr.  Brandon  has  never  objected  to  your  being  in  rny  society  ?" 

"  He!"  echoes  Vanessa,  throwing  up  her  head  with  a  fine  scorn. 
"  No,  indeed.  He,  at  least,  knows  me." 

Ravenhold  feels  the  least  bit  in  the  world  foolish. 

"  Of  course,"  he  says.  "  He  would  not  deserve  you  if  he  did 
not.  But  now,  Mrs.  Brandon,"  pleadingly,  "  won't  you  judge 
me  for  yourself,  instead  of  listening  to  what  my  wise  and  good- 
natured  relations  say  ?  Be  friends  with  me  out  of  the  goodness 
of  your  heart,  because  I  want  a  friend,  and  if  you  find  me  tak- 
ing advantage  of  your  kindness,  or  trying  to  do  so,  kick  me  out, 
and  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  me." 

So  Vanessa  smiles  and  makes  a  compact  with  him,  and  the 
rest  of  the  time  which  they  spend  together  is  passed  in  perfect 
harmony.  It  wants  a  quarter  to  eleven  when  Sir  Bertram  and 
Mr.  Brandon  join  them.  Both  seem  in  the  best  of  spirit? — it  is 
evident  that  no  qualm  has  visited  the  husband  about  his  wife's 
tete-a-tete  with  Lord  Ravenhold. 

"  _4hT'  says  Sir  Bertram,  in,  for  him,  quite  a  jovial*  tone, 
"  moonshine  is  all  very  well  for  you  young  people,  but  a- good 
bottle  of  claret  is  not  without  its  attraction  for  us,  eh,  Brandon  ? 
Every  age  has  its  pleasures." 

John  Brandon  assents  laughingly — he  does  not  seem  in  the 
least  offended  by  being  put  in  the  same  category  with  his  host. 

"  I  am  glad  we  went,"  he  says  to  Vanessa,  as  they  are  driving 
homeward.  "  The  ol'd  chap  was  trementlously  civil;  he  is  really 
very  good  company.  *  And  I  did  a  capital  stroke  of  -fcusiness  Re- 
sides. He  has  g»iven  me  a  considerable  order." 

Vanessa  feels  suddenly  froissee — the  idea  jars  upon  her,  and 
as  her  husband  is  proceeding  to  enter  into  details  of  the  commis- 
sion with  which  he  has  been  favored,  she  catches  him  by  the  arm 
an;l  says: 

"  Look,  darling,  at  this  little  group  of  houses  down  there  in -the 
moonlight — is  it  not  like  a  picture?  Ah!  what  a  night!  It 
makes  me  think  of  this  time  last  year." 

"  Yes,"  returns  Brandon,  complacently.  "It  is  quite  a  night 
for  lovers.  We  were  lovers  this  time  last  year— at  least  I  was, 
eh,  deary?" 

"  Are  we  not  now?"  says  Vanessa,  sidling  up  to  him  and  feel- 
ing intense!}"  sentimental. 

••  We  are  better,"  he  answers.  "  We  have  got  over  the  foolish 
part.  By  Jove!"  catching  sight  of  the  clock  on  a  church  they 
are  passing,  ' 4 1  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late.  Claret  like  that 
makes  one  forget  time." 

A  chill  disappointment  creeps  through  Vanessa's  heart.  She 
feels  acutely  aggrieved  that  claret  should  have  taken  the  place 
of  romance.  No  young  wife  will  ever  be  able  to  understand  why 
the  passionate  lover  of  last  year  should  subside  into  the  tranquil 
husband  of  to-day,  who  seems  anxious  to  shirk  everything  like 
romance  or  lov^-making. 


"f    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  lit 

a.**,  this  moment  Lord  "Ravenhold  dashes  past  them  in  his 
buggy.  IJe  raises  his  hat  and  speeds  onward  still  faster,  with  a 
spasm  of  envious  rage  in  his  heart  at  the  happiness  of  the  pair. 

He  does  not  realize  any  more  than  Vanessa  does,  the  comfort- 
able tranquillity  and  absence  of  emotion  that  reigns  in  the  breast 
of  the  possessor  of  so  much  loveliness.  He  believes  that  Bran- 
don must  be  as  passionately  enamored  as  he  would  be  were  he 
seated  beside  so  lovely  a  woman.  And  it  is  just  as  well  that  he 
should  believe  it. 

The  next  day  Vanessa  writes  a  long  letter  to  her  friends,  pour- 
ing out  all  her  disappointment  at  their  absence  from  tke  party 
which,  on  their  account,  she  had  looked  forward  to  with  such 
eager  expectation.  She  finishes  with  congratulations  to  Mabel, 
but  finds  it  impossible  to  make  them  very  hearty. 

A  long  answer  comes  fromMab  almost  by  return  of  post: 

"  What,  in  the  name  of  fortune,  my  most  beloved  Nessa,  is  the 
interpretation  of  all  this  mystery?  You  at  Riverside!  you  the 
guest  of  the  O.  G.  and  expecting  to  meet  us  theie!  What  can 
that  terrible  old  person  be  plotting  ?  Is  he  going  to  take  you  out 
in  a  boat  and  drown  you,  or  is  that  fate  reserved  for  your  hus- 
band ?  The  latter,  I  expect,  after  which  he  will  marry  the  relict 
— you.  He  has  never  so  much,  as  mentioned  to  us  having  seen 
or  spoken  to  you;  so  it  is  evident  his  designs  are  very  deep,  not 
to  say  dreadful.  Anyhow,  now  he  has  made  up  with  you  (or 
pretended  to,  for  he  never  forgets  or  forgives),  he  will  have  no 
excuse  for  forbidding  us  to  see  you;  and,  although  the  longest 
day  is  past  some  time,  I.  shall  try  to  find  one  long  enough  to 
make  a  journey  to  Bryanstonia  and  back.  I  shall  cause  Sir 
Tummas  (I  always  call  him  Sir  Tummas;  my  fiance)  to  drive  me 
there.  I  observe,  my  dearest  friend,  a  lack  of  warmth  and 
heartiness  about  your  congratulations;  they  have  not  quite  a 
genuine  ring — they  are  not  nearly  so  gushing  as  one  might  ex- 
pect from  a  devoted  wife  like  yourself  who  thinks  so  highly  of 
marriage,  and  who  has  also  (pardon  the  reminder)  married  a  man 
considerably  older  than  Herself. 

' '  Sir  Tummas,  I  assurejrou,  is  the  most  excellent  of  men — he 
quite  grows  fupon  one;  and  though  I  do  not  think  myself  ca- 
pable of  committing  any  rash  action  on  his  account,  I  quite  like 
nim  in  a  comfortable  and  unembarrassed  manner.  I  am  rather 
sorry  I  told"  you  about  his  tooth,  because  I  can  see  that,  in- 
directly perhaps,  has  prejudiced  you  against  him.  But  I  pror 
pose  to  remedy  this  blemish.  He  is  quite  devoted  to  me,  and 
is  really  a  chivalrous  sort  of  person.  Well,  instead  of  exacting 
the  performance  of  any  knightly  feat  to  prove  his  devotion  to 
me,  I  am  simply  going  to  ask  him  to  have  out  his  four  front 
teeth  and  get  them  replaced  by  four  lovely  new  ones.  (I  won- 
der whether  grandpa  would  contribute  one  of  those  elephant 
tusks  in  the  hall  for  their  confection;  they  would  then  have 
quite  a  historic  interest.)  I  shall  stipulate  for  their  being  fix- 
tures; no  putting  into  tumblers — no  losing  them  unexpectedly 
in  the  mid-channel,  in  a  spasm  of  mal-de~mer,  as  happened  to  a  \ 
bridegroom  I  l*c^*d  of. 


MC  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

"  Apart,  my  dear,  from  this  rodomontade.  I  like  Sir  Tiammas,  and 
you  need  not  think  (as  I  know  you  do)  that  I  am  a  heartless  wretch 
sacrificing  myself  to  Mammon.  I  don't  care  for  your  ridiculous 
young  men  who  think  of  nothing  but  themselves  and  the  fit  of 
their  clothes,  and  who.  all  the  time  they  are  making  love  to 
you,  are  trying  to  get  a  bird's-eye  view  of  themselves  in  the 
nearest  glass.  Sir  Tummas  can  "stand  any  amount  of  teasing, 
whereas  all  young  men  are  touchy:  he  admires  everything  I  say 
and  do.  and  is  not  even  put  out  by  the  little  practical  jokes  which 
my  playful  nature  delights  in.  Edie  is  getting  so  disagreeable 
about  my  writing  at  such  length  that  I  must  wind  up.  She 
seems  to  think  it  would  involve  mortgaging  the  family  estate  if 
we  had  to  put  a  second  stamp  on  the  letter.  A  million  kisses 
from  Your  ever  devoted  MAS.'' 

The  postscript  is  written  by  Edith. 

"  I  have  no  idea  what  Mab  has  been  scribbling  to  you  all  this 
time,  dearest  Nessa,  and  I  certainly  have  no  intention  of  wading 
through  it.  She  is  wilder  than  ever.  I  always  told  you  she  had 
no  heart,  but  I  am  certain  that  she  likes  Sir  Tummas  quite  as 
well  as  she  is  capable  of  liking  any  one.  Is  it  not  extraordinary  ? 
but  really  he  is  very  kind  and  good,  and  it  is  more  his  appear- 
ance that  is  against  him  than  anything  else.  He  positively  wor- 
ships her,  and  loads  her  with  presents,  which  is  just  what  she 
likes.  Algy  thinks  you  quite  a  darling.  Alas!  we  are  no  nearer 
to  happiness  than  before — further  off,  I  fear;  my  people  won't  let 
me  speak  to  him  if  they  can  help  it.  But  I  shall  be  faithful,  ivhat- 
ever  Happens.  How  mysterious  about  grandpapa  asking  you 
down  to  Riverside  and  not  saying  a  word  to  us.  I  think  it  must 
lead  to  our  meeting  now. 

*•**  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  long  to  see  you.     I  suppose  you  are  as 
happy  as  ever. 

"  Your  most  affectionate 

"EDITH."' 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A  MONTH  has  elapsed — August  is  waning,  and  Vanessa  is  back 
at  the  rose-covered  Vicarage  in  the  heart  of  Southshire.  She  has 
repeated  over  and  over  again  to  Susan  the  events  of  the  last  ten 
months,  and  Susan  has  never  wearied  of  hearing  about  her 
darling's  doings,  and  of  saying  with  a  wise  nod  that  she  always 
knew  how  it  would  be.  When  she  hears,  however,  that  Va- 
nessa has  danced  and  conversed  with  a  royal  personage,  her  ja\* 
drops,  and  she  feels  that  fate  has  even  overstepped  her  predic- 
tions. 

Brandon  thoroughly  enjoys  the  repose  of  the  country — he  has 
brought  down  a  couple  of  horses,  and  is  teaching  his  wife  to  ride; 
an  easy  enough  matter,  as  he  has  taken  care  to  provide  her  with 
a  quiet,  well-broken  horse,  and  she  is  not  troubled  with  nervous- 
ness. 

Many  a  nighfe  he  and  she  sit  out  in  the  moonlight  or  the  star- 
light drinking  in  the  balmy  air  laden  with  spoils  from^  the 


T  'HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  11* 

flowers'  hearts.  Vanessa  twines  her  arm  round  his  neck  and 
leans  her  cheek  against  his,  and  tries  to  bring  back  the  feeling! 
and  emotions  of  last  year:  but  the  gorged  monster,  satiety,  de-^ 
feats  her.  She  has  the  kindest,  most  affectionate,  Indulgent  hus- 
band in  the  world,  but  the  lover  is  gone:  the  last  page  of  the 
romance  has  arrived:  the  end  has  come,  "And  so  they  lived 
happy  ever  after. " 

Vanessa,  fights  against  her  disappointment;  is  angry  with  her* 
self  for  feeling  it,  and,  now  and  again,  becomes  rather  unhappy; 
for  there  is  nothing  that  causes  a  sensitive  nature  so  much  Dain 
as  self-disapprobation.  People  who  are  downright  ill-tempered 
or  selfish  or  unprincipled  are  not  uncomfortable,  because  they 
have  no  remorse;  the  ones  to  suffer  are  those  cursed  by  a  double 
nature  (probably  inherited  from  an  opposite  father  and  mother, 
with  a  dash  of  Heaven  knows  how  many  other  ancestors  thrown 
in);  the  ones  whose  good  and  bad,  kind  and  unkind  instincts  are 
always  warring  against  each  other;  who  know  what  is  right  and 
are  madly  impelled  by  a  stronger  will  to  do  what  is  wrong.  Va- 
nessa, whilst  vehemently  arguing  to  her  conscience  that  she 
ought  to  be  the  very  happiest  woman  in  the  world,  knows  her- 
self to  be  dissatisfied  and  disappointed.  She  stands  by  the  same 
window  as  last  year,  looking  at  the  same  sky,  and  tells  herself 
that  the  yearnings  and  aspirations  she  felt  then  have  been  ful- 
filled and  granted;  and  yet  all  her  heart  tumultuously  cries  out 
that  her  whole  life  is* still  before  her;  that  six  months'  romance 
is  not  sufficient  to  last  till  the  end  of  her  days;  that  every  feeling 
and  longing  is  ten  times  stronger  in  her  now  than  twelve  months 
ago.  She  is  as  passionately  in  love  with  her  husband  as  ever, 
and  hjs  calm,  sober  affection  is  to  her  as  a  rock  againgt  which 
she  vainly  dashes  the  toir^nt  of  her  love. 

One  night,  recalling  the  past  which  seemed  so  fraught  with 
bliss  to  her,  she  bursts  into  a  sudden  passion  of  tears  and  sobs  as 
she  sits  beside  him  in, the  same  spot  where  last  year  he  suffered 
the  lover's  agonies  of  doubt  and  fear.  He  is  genuinely  distressed, , 
and  soothes  her  with  the  tenderest  endearments,  trying  to  elicit 
from  her  the  cause  of  this  sudden  outburst.  It  is  on  her  lips  to 
say,  "  You  no  longer  love  me  as  you  did  last  year,"  but  her  heart 
smites  her  that  such  a  speech  would  be  ungrateful;  and  he  as- 
cribes her  crying  fit  to  atmospheric  causes  or  to  some  little  hitch 
in  the  delicate  machinery  of  her  sex's  nature,  which  is  and  ever 
will  be  incomprehensible  to  nine  hundred  and  ninety -nine  men 
out  of  a  thousand. 

But  Vanessa  is  not  always  moping  and  dissatisfied;  on  the  con- 
trary, she  is  exceedingly  cheerful  as  a  rule,  and  enjoys  excellent 
health  and  spirits. 

She  is  looking  forward  with  immense  delight  to  the  arrival  of 
Edith  and  Mabel.  Sir  Bertram  is  already  at  the  Hall,  and  has 
paid  two  or  three  visits  to  the  Vicarage.  He  seems  to  have  for- 
gotten the  vexatious  incident  of  last  year,  and  is  especially 
courteous  and  civil  to  the  man  whom  he  once  spoke  of  so  dis- 
ilainfully  as  "my  wine  merchant.'' 

More  tlian  once  he  has  asked  the  pair  to  dinner,  and  has  so- 
licited Br#r»Hon's  opinion  on  the  contents  of  his  cellar. 

I 


120  1     HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

And  when  the  two  girls  arrive,  Vanessa  forgets  all  about  her 
disappointed  romance,  and  enjoys  their  society  with  a  keenness 
of  appreciation  stimulated  by  the  fact  that  she  is  now  acquainted 
with  the  delightful  world  of  which  of  yore  they  brought  her 
strange  and  fascinating  rumors. 

Edith  is  still  pining  for  her  guardsman,  Mab  is  in  the  best  of 
spirits  and  perfectly  satisfied  with  her  choice.  Vanessa  remarks 
that  although  she  seems  as  full  of  pranks  and  quips  and  wiles 
as  ever,  there  is  a  considerably  greater  degree  of  womanliness 
about  her. 

Going  up  to  the  Hall  one  morning  to  see  her  friends,  Vanessa 
finds  them  both  in  a  state  of  high  excitement. 

"  What  do  you  think,  my  angel!"  cries  Mab.  "  You  will  nevjer 
guess  if  you  live  to  be  three  thousand  and  forty.  Who  do  you 
think  is  coming  here  ?  Guess  the  most  unlikely  person  in  all  the 
world." 

" Mr.  Howard?"  asks  Vanessa,  straightway  doing  her  friend's 
bidding. 

" Go  up  to  the  top  of  the  class,"  cries  Mab.  "It  is  not  him, 
but  you  are  so  far  right  in  that  he  is  the  most  unlikely  person  in 
the  world  to  be  asked  here,  not  even  excepting  the  other.  How- 
ever, the  extraordinary  thing  in  this  case  is  not  so  much  in  the 
individual  being  invited,  as  in  his  accepting n 

"Oh,  Mab,"  interposed  her  sister,  "  what  a  nuisance  you  are 
with  your  riddles  and  mysteries!  Tell  hey  at  once,  or  I  shall." 

' '  It  is  Lord  Ravenhold !"  cries  Mab. 

Vanessa  is  quite  as  much  surprised  as  her  friends  expect  and 
wish  her  to  be.  Her  breath  is  nearly  taken  away  by  the  an- 
nouncement. 

"Lord  Ravenhold!"  she  exclaims,  opening  her  eyes  ve^fy  wide 
and  letting  her  jaw  drop  ever  so  little. 

"  Of  course,"  says  Edith,  "  we  know  what  it  means.  They  are 
always  trying  to  make  me  give  up  Algy,  and  they  think  Lord 
Ravenhold  so  handsome  and  fascinating  that  I  shall  fall  in  love 
with  him." 

"But  what  we  can't  understand,"  chimes  in  Mab,  "is  what 
induced  him  to  accept.  Fancy  him  leaving  his  grouse  to  come 
here  where  there  is  no  mortal  amusement  for  him.  except  to  play 
lawn-tennis,  or  ride  with  us,  or  to  go  out  shpoting  by  himself  or 
with  Sir  Tummas  when  September  arrives.  I  have  always  heard 
that  he  abhors  girls,  and  *  goes  in  for  married  women.'  Perhaps 
he'll  flirt-with  you,  Nessa.  You  do  know  him,  don't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  returns  Vanessa.  "His  sister  and  I  are  great 
friends. " 

Since  that  evening  on  the  river  she  has  not  seen  a  great  deal 
of  Lord  Ravenhold.  She  had  avoided  dancing  with  or  talking 
to  him  much  in  .public,  and  he  hadtibeen  rather  petulant  and 
injured  in  consequence.  One  day  at  his  sister's  he  was  begin- 
ning to  remonstrate  with  her  for  what  he  called  her  unkindness, 
when  Mrs.  Fane  came  tripping  in,  and  seeing  a  slight  agitation 
in  his  manner,  and  some  confusion  in  Vanessa's,  the  little  lady 
took  very  good  care  not  to  give  them  another  chance  of  a  tete* 
a-tete. 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  121 

At  luncheon  on  the  day  that  Lord  Ravenhold's  coming  has 
been  announced,  Sir  Bertram  says  to  Mrs.  Brandon,  with  one  of 
his  "  smiles  by  machinery,"  as  Mab  calls  them: 

*'  We  shall  hope  for  your  neighborly  services  to  help  us  enter- 
tain Lord  Raven-hold;"  and  she  expresses  her  willingness  to  serve 
her  Jiost  in  the  manner  indicated. 

Vanessa  is  not  sorry  that  he  is  coming.  Personally  she  likes 
him,  and  now  that  she  will  be  able  to  talk  to  him  without  cau- 
tions from  his  relations  or  insults  from  Lady  Mildred,  she  rather 
looks  forward  to  the  meeting.  Does  she  in  any  way  connect  his 
acceptance  with  the  fact  of  her  being  Sir  Bertram's  neighbor  ? 
Positively  I  do  not  know.  Once  now  and  again  even  an  author 
cannot  fathom  the  secret  hearts  of  his  characters. 

The  day  appointed  arrives — Lord  Ravenhold  comes  with  it. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brandon  are  invited  to  meet  him,  and  Vanessa 
finds  his  lordship"  vastly  improved.  He  is  exceedingly  cheery; 
perfectly  free  from  Byronic  airs,  and  in  the  very  height  of  health 
and  spirits. 

The  morning  after  his  arrival  Mab  conies  down  alone  to  the 
Vicarage.  She  wears  a  solemn  air — her  usual  vivacity  has  been 
laid  aside,  and  she  throws  herself  into  a  chair  with  quite  a  tragic 
.gesture.  ,  _ 

"I  see  it  all/'  she  says,  gloomily,  fixing  her  eyes  on  Vanessa. 
4 •  It  is  too  horrible — it  has  kept  me  awake  nearly  all  night.'' 

"My  dear  child,  what  is  the  matter T  exclaims  Vanessa,  who 
has  not  yet  made  up  her  mind  whether  the  girl  is  serious  or  in 
jest, 

"This  is  grandpapa's  revenge,"  continues  Mab.  "I  always 
knew  he  was  a  bad,  vindictive  old  man,  but  this  is  too  horri- 
ble." 

^' What  is  it  ?"  cries  Vanessa,  her  curiosity  stimulated  to  the 
highest  pitch.  "  Is  it  anything  about  you  and  Sir  Thomas  ?" 

•*  No,"  and  Mab  looks  searchingly  at  Mrs.  Brandon.  "  I  won- 
der if  you  really  don't  guess  what  I  mean  V" 

"  That,  indeed,  I  do  not,"  returns  the  other,  genuinely. 

"  Very  well.  Then  I  will  tell  you.  Grandpapa  has  asked 
Lord  Ravenhold  here  not  on  Edith's  account,  but  on  yours;  be- 
cause he  is  in  love  with  you." 

A  vivid  flame  of  crimson  shoots  ©ver  Vanessa's  fair  face. 

"  Don't  be  ridiculous,  Mab!"  she  cries,  almost  angr%.  "  There 
is  a  limit  even  to  jesting." 

"I  am  not  jesting,"  returns  Mab,  nothing  daunted.  "My 
suspicions  were  aroused  the  moment  you  came  into  the  room  last 
night.  Lord  Ravenhold  had  been  quiet  and  ctistrait,  and  as  soon 
as  he  saw  you  all  his  face  lighted  up,  and  he  was  a  different 
being.  And  I  saw  that  old  wretch  watching  you  both  as  a  cat 
does  a  mouse,  and  looking  delighted.  I  know  his  face  when  he 
is  pleased— he  does  not  give  that  ghastly  grin  then,  but  there  is 
a  sort  of  horrid  delight  in  his  wicked  old  eyas.  When  he  is 
making  Relieve  he  grins  with  his  mouth,  when  he  is  glad  he 
does  it  with  his  eyes." 

There  is*so  much  confidence  in  Mab's  tone  and  manner  that 
Vanessa  finds  it  no  easy  task  to  pooh-pooh  her— -perhaps  she 


122  l     HAVE    LIVED    AND 

feels  that  her  sharp-sighted  friend  is  not  altogether  without 
foundation  for  her  suspicions.  After  a  moment's  pause  she 
says . 

''  It  is  a  comfort  to  think  that  his  amiable  intentions,  if  he  has 
any.  will  be  defeated." 

Mabel  contemplates  her  friend  for  a  whole  minute  without 
speaking.  She  is  eighteen  and  unmarried,  Vanessa  is  twenty 
and  has  a  husband,  but  the  former  looks  and  speaks  at  this  mo- 
ment like  a  woman  of  the  world,  and  the  latter  like  a  school- 
girl 

4  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  Nessa,"  she  urges,  with  extreme 
earnestness.  "  Of  course  I  know  you  are  devoted  to  Mr.  Bran 
don,  but  Lord  Ravenhold  is  very  handsome,  and  has  most  taking- 
manners.  He  is  always  making  love  to  some  one,  and  now,  I 
know,  it  is  going  to  be  you.  And  he  always  makes  a  woman 
care  for  him  when  he  wants  to." 

Vanessa  gcJt-s  fairly  angry.  Is  it  an  absolute  fatality  that  the 
moment''  Lord  Ravenhold  appears  on  the  scene  some  one  should 
spring  up  to  watch  and  to  warn  her  ? 

"Oh,  all  right,"  she  says,  with  extreme  coldness;  "  there,  is 
one  very  simple  way  out  of  it.  As  people  seem  to  think  me 
either  a  fool  or  a  baby,  unable  to  take  care  of  myself,  I  will  not 
go  up  to  the  Hall  as  long  as  Lord  Ravenhold  is  there." 

••  Don't  be  silly!"  cries  Mab,  rather  frightened  at  the  tone  Mrs. 
Brandon  is  taking.  "  That  would  rouse  every  one's  suspicions." 

"  And  lay  them  too,"  retorts  Vanessa.  *'  For  if  we  do  not 
meet,  it  is  impossible  for  the  most  scandalous  person  to  think  or 
say  anything  about  it." 

In  vain  Mab  entreats,  conjures,  implores.  Vanessa's  anger 
and  obstinacy  are  roused,  and  she  adheres  to  her  determination 
of  not  meeting  Lord  Ravenhold  again.  So  at  last  Mab  has  to 
leave  her,  feeling  very  crestfallen  and  like  an  officious  person 
who  has  been  slapped  in  the  face  for  his  pains.  She  knows 
pretty  well  that  if  her  grandfather  suspected  her  of  interfering 
with  his  plans  she  would  have  a  very  uncomfortable  time  for  the 
next  few  weeks.  Vanessa,  left  to  herself,  is  sorely  vexed  arid 
put  out.  She  has  anticipated  a  certain  amount  of  pleasure  from 
Lord  Ravenhold's  visit — has  been  looking  forward  to  picnics, 
lawn- tennis,  and  pleasant  dinners  at  the  Hall.  And  now,  if  she 
keeps  her  word  as  she  means  to,  she  will  have  the  constant  bit- 
terness of  thinking  that  all  these  agreeable  things  are  taking 
place  without  her.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  almost  dis- 
likes Mab.  So  ruffled  are  her  plumes  that  Brandon,  joining  her 
half  an  hour  later  in  the  garden,  cannot  but  observe  her  per- 
turbed and  altered  manner. 

4 'What  is  the  matter,  deary?"  he  says,  kindly.  *-  What  has 
gone  wrong  r  You  and  the  faithf u«l  Susan  have  not  been  indulg- 
ing in  a  set-to,  have  you  ?" 

"  Oh,"  cries  Vanessa,  glad  to  give  vent  to  her  wrath,  "  I  am  so 
furious — I  should  like  to  kill  some  one." 

"Hey-day!"  exclaims  Brandon,  suprised  at  this  unusual  ex 
hibition  of  temper  on  his  wife's  part.  "  Whyt  what  in  the  naraa 
iff  "orpine  h«s  any  one  being  doing  to  you?" 


I  -&A  VE    LIVED    AND    LO  Vb  <  .  1 33 

A  sudden  instinct  seizes  Vanessa.  She  will  tell  him  the  truth. 
Why  not  ?  H<?r  conscience  is  clear  and  innocent  enough. 

"  Johnnie,"  she  says,  suddenly,  stopping  and  looking  into  his 
lace,  her  deep-colored  eyes  kindling  with  excitement,  4 '  people 
are  too  hateful  and  disgusting  and  abominable," 

*4  Who  aro  people?'  he  asks,  iiihis  calm  voice,  with  au  amused 
Anile. 

**'  Every  one,  she  returns,  with  emphasis. 

"  Do  I  come  under  the  category  ?" 

•*  No!"  passionately.  "  You  are  more  than  every  one  to  me/' 
And,  with  that,  she  draws  him  to  a  bench  hard  by,  lays  h«r 
head  on  his  shoulder,  and  begins  to  cry. 

'*  Tell  me  all  about  it,  darling,"  says  Brandon,  kissing  her. 

It  suddenly  occurs  to  Vanessa  that,  after  all,  it  is  not  a  very 
easy  thing  to  tell  him,  and  that  perhaps  she  had  better  let  it  alone. 
If  he  pressed  her,  she  might  perhaps  have  decided  to  keep  silence, 
but  as  he  only  sits  and  waits  with  exceeding  patience,  she  con- 
cludes to  unburd^i  herself  of  grief  and  anger.  She  begins  in 
rather  a  circumlocutory  fashion. 

"  Do  you  think  I  love  you?" 

Ht  Yes!  my  darling,  God  bless  you— I  am  sure  you  do." 

44  Do  you  think  it  possible  for  me  to  fall  in  love  with  any  other 
man  ?"  * 

14 1  hope  not,"  sYuiling  and  with  the  serenest  confidence  in  his 
voice. 

With  the  perversity  of  heart  and  brain  peculiar  to  the  female 
sex  alone,  it  suddenly  occurs  to  Vanessa  to  wonder  whv  he 
should  be  so  entirely  and  perfectly  sure  of  her.  It  almost  piques 
her. 

•"  You  are  not  afraid  of  my  falling  in  love  with  Lord  Raven- 
hold  r 

"  Not  in  the  very  least,"  answers  Brandon,  in  an  amused  tona 
He  thinks  he  sees  his  way  to  it  now.  The  girls  up  at  the  Hall 
are  jealoivs  of  her,  and  have  been  putting  this  idea  into  her 
head.  What  an  extraordinary  thing  is  the  jealousy  of  women! 

'Then,"  says  Vanessa,  "you  are  different  from  every  one 

else.     I  suppose  he  carries  a  love-philter  about  him — or  it  may 

-be  because  I  am  considered  especially  susceptible,  being  only  a 

country  bumpkin,  but  I  have  this  morning  for  the  third  time 

been  warned  against  his  lordship's  fascinations." 

'  *  For  the  th  ird  time  ?"  inquiringly. 

"Yes.  The  colonel  warned  me  first,  then  Mrs.  Fane,  and 
now,  if  you  please,  Miss  Mab,  who  is  excessively  exalted  in  her 
owrn  estimation  because  she  is  going  to  be  married  to  a  baronet 
old  eiio " 

Here  Vanessa  stops  suddenly. 

"  Old  enough  to  be  her  father,  like  I  am,"  supplies  Brandon, 
amused. 

"  You  are  Mot!'  cries  Vanessa,  passionately,  flinging  her  arms 
around  him.  "  You  are  forty-two,  and  if  you  were  eighty-two 
you  are  the  dearest  darling  in  the  world,  and  worth  ail  the  Lord 
Kavenholdft  who  ever  drew  breath." 


124  y    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

Sui-e/y  Vanessa  ought  not  to  be  surprised  that  her  lord  fe«ls 
quite  easy  in  his  mind  aY>out  possessing  her  entire  jiffection! 

"  My  dear  child,"  he  says,  stroking  her  head  lovingly,  "rf^jou 
are  satisfied,  and  I  am  satisfied,  what  does  it  matter  about  any 
one  else  ?" 

"  It  does  matter!"  cries  Vanessa,  vindictively.  i;  They  are 
wretches,  and  I  hate  them.  And  so,"  half  proudly,  half  re- 
morsefully, "  I  "have  told  that  meddling  Miss  Mab  that  as  long 
as  his  lordship  remains  at  the  Hall  they  will  not  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  me  there.  And  what  is  more,  I  shall  not  go  to  the 
picnic  this  afternoon." 

:i  Why,  you  little  goos»Vvsays  Brandon,  "  you  could  not  choose 
a  better  way  of  making  people  talk." 

"  Mab  says,"  pursues  Vanessa,  looking  at  her  husband  out  of 
the  corner  of  her  eye,  "  that  Sir  Bertram  has  asked  Lord  Raven- 
hold  here  out  of  revenge  in  the  hope  that  I  shall  fall  in  love  with 
him." 

At  this  Brandon  laughs  outright,  and  Vanessa,  instead  of  re- 
joicing in  the  confidence  her  husband  shows  in  her,  is,  incon- 
sistently, a  little  bit  nettled  by  it. 

"  Ah,"  she  says,  perversely,  "  you  were  not  so  sure  of  me  this 
time  last  year." 

He  draws  her  toward  him  and  sa\-s,  with  momentary  gravity: 

' '  Would  you  rather  I  was  not  so  sure  of  you  now  ?*' 

"  No,  no,  not"  she  cries,  and  stops  his  mouth  with  kisses.  "  If 
you  were  not  sure,  you  would  be  too  wicked  and  good  for  noth- 
ing to  live." 

So  you  see,  Vanessa  is  about  as  capricious  as  the  rest  of  her 
sex.  Her  determination,  however,  holds  good  not  to  go  to  the 
picnic  planned  for  that  afternoon.  Knowing  the  absurdity  and 
futility  of  pleading  indisposition,  she,  without  a  word  to  any  one, 
slips  away  and  hides  herself,  leaving  her  husband  to  make  her 
excuses  as  best  he  may. 

"Well?"  she  inquires  the  same  evening  on  his  return,  "did 
you  have  a  nice  time  F" 

*"  Oh,  quite  too  delightful  /"  he  answers,  laughing.  "  I  never 
saw  Sir  Bertram  so  disagreeable.  The  young  ladies  seemed  dull, 
and  as  for  Ravenhold,  I  don't  think  I  should  envy  his  wife  if  he 
gets  one.  I  suppose,"  smiling,  "that  he  is  in  love  with  you, 
whatever  you  may  no^be  with  him." 

^-He  is  only  in  love  with  himself,"  retorts  Vanessa,  frowning, 
but  secretly  pleased  to  think  the  picnic  has  not  gone  off  well  in 
her  absence.  For  her  part,  she  has  spent  the  most  disagreeable 
afternoon,  bored  to  death,  and  longing  to  be  one  of  the  coach- 
load whom  she  imagined  to  be  enjoying  themselves  amazingly. 
Ennui  has  conquered  her  pride;  she  does  not  mean  to  be  done 
out  of  any  more  of  the  Hall  festivities. 

CHAPTER   XXI. 

"  WHO  has  been  offending  Mrs.  Brandon  T  inquires  Sir  Bertram 
the  next  morning  at  breakfast,  with  his  worst  sniilt. 

(:  I  suppose  she  is  setting  up  for  a  fashionable  beauty,*  i'3 


i    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED,  .28 

marks  Lord  Ravenhold,  with  a  bitterness  that  betrays  him  te 
two  out  "of  the  other  four  persons  assembled.  "She  thought 
.we  wanted  her,  and  so  she  stayed  away  to  make  us  feel  her 
loss." 

" 1  think  we  did  very  well  without  her,"  remarks  Mab,  who  is 
extremely  indignant  with  Vanessa  for  the  fright  and  discomfort 
i  uhe  has  caused  her. 

"  Do  you  ?"  sneers  her  grandfather.  "  Your  ideas  of  a  cheer- 
i  ful  party  must  be  rather  of  a  singular  kind.  But,  no  doubt," 
|  with  a  still  more  vicious  twist  to  his  smile,  "  you  were  occupied 
'  with  your  own  pleasing  thoughts." 

"Yes,"  returns  Mab,  demurely,  "  I  was  thinking  of  dear  Sir 
i  Tummas,"  and  her  tone  and  the  little  accompanying  sigh  are  so 
I  irresistibly  comic  that  every  one  except  Sir  Bertram  bursts  out 
i  laughing. 

It  effects  a  diversion  for  a  rq.oment. 

"  Brandon  is  an  excellent  fellow,"  pursues  the  squire,  "  but 
he  is  monstrous  dull,  except  when  he  is  talking  about  his  ov/n- 
specialite." 

"  Specialite  sherry,"  murmurs  Mab;  but  her  sister  nudges  her 
sharply.  Sir  Bertram  is  not  in  a  hitmor  for  trifling. 

"  I  think,"  says  the  old  gentleman,  looking  blandly  at  Raven- 
hold,  "  that  we  must  get  you  to  go  down  to  the  Yi'carage  and 
persuade  Mrs.  Brandon  to  spend  the  afternoon  and  dine  here. 
We  really  cannot  do  without  her." 

A  light  leaps  into  the  young  man's  eyes  that  is  neither  lost  on 
the  squire  nor  Mab. 

4  *  I  will  go  with  you,"  cries  the  latter. 

"  No,"  utters  Sir  Bertram,  in  his  sternest,  most  authoritative 
tone.  Then,  more  mildly,  "  Your  mission  was  not  so  success- 
ful yesterday  that  we  can  intrust  you  even  to  take  part  in  ojie 
to-day." 

Mab  quails,  She  did  not  know  that  her  grandfather  was  aware 
of  her  visit  to  the  Vicarage.  At  all  events  hevcannot  know  her 
errand,  but  the  expression  of  his  eyes  and  her  own* con  science 
make  her  terribly  uncomfortable. 

"  Be  sure,"  says  the  squire,  impatiently,  to  Ravenhold,  as  he  is 
starting— "be  sure  you  bring  Mrs.  "Brandon  back  to  us.  Your 
powers  of  persuasion  ought  to  be  considerable." 

Ravenhold  goes  on  his  way  rejoicing  and  unsuspicious;  when 
a  person  plays  into  our  hands  we  seldom  suspect  him  of  ill  mo- 
tives ;  it  is  reserved  for  the  *  *  lookers-on  "  to  do  that. 

Swift  thoughts  chase  each  other  through  his  mind  as  he  walks 
down  the  drive  w^here  last  year  Sir  Bertram  conceived  the  idea 
of  raising  Vanessa  to  share  his  throne.  What  shall  he  say  to  her  ? 
Will  he  prevail  ?  Will  he  see  her  alone,  or  will  that  inevitable 
husband  be  there  ?  He  scarcely  knows  what  ke  wants,  hopes, 
expects;  he,  knows  that  he  thinks  Mrs.  Brandon  the  most  beauti- 
ful woman  in  the  world,  and  that  it  is  longing  for  the  sight  of 
her  beaux  yeux  that  has  brought  him  from  one  of  the  cheeriest 
houses  and  parties  in  Scotland  to  what  he  is  pleased  to  call 
u  this  God-forsaken  hole."  0 

There  &«re  not  after  all,  a  great  many  villains  in  the 

IK 


Tf*  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

villains  who  premeditate  seduction,  murder,  and  other  heinoud 
crimes.  A  sudden  impulse  comes  upon  a  man;  he  does  not  check 
it,  he  has  not  the  courage  to  stop  and  look  the  thing  in  the  fac«; 
he  lets  himself  go,  that  is  all.  But  once  you  let  yourself  go. 
there  is  only  one  way  of  going,  because  the  road  is  down  hill 
every  step  of  the  way. 

The  door  of  the  Vicarage  stands  wide  open,  hut.  as  he  cannot 
enter  unannounced,  Lord  Ravenhold  naturally  rings  the  bell,  arid 
Susan  comes  in  haste  to  obey  the  summons.  Susan,  in  spite  of 
her  age,  has  an  extremely  susceptible  heart,  and,  at  a  glance,  she 
sees  that  the  handsomest  and  most  distinguished  young  man  she 
has  ever  "  clapped  eyes  on  "  is  before  her. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Brandon  at  home  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replies  Susan,  invitingly.  "Will  you  please  to 
walk  in?"  and  he  joyfully  follows  her  to  the  drawing-room. 

"  What  name  shall  I  please  to'say,  sir?"  Susan  inquires. 

"  Lord  Ravenhold." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lord,"  and  Susan  blushes,  drops  a 
courtesy,  and  hurries  out,  horrified  at  having  committed  the  aw- 
ful solecism  of  calling  a  lord,  sir. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  vexefl!"  she  exclaims  as  she  enters  the 
breakfast-room  in  quest  of  Vanessa.  "There's  a  lord  come  to 
see  you,  and  I  called  him  plain  sir.  I  hope  his  lordship  isn't 
offended.  I  might  have  known  by  the  look  of  him ;  he  looks  a 
lord  every  inch.  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me  to  his  lordship." 

A  nervous  flutter  comes  to  Vanessa's  heart;  she  does  not  know 
what  Susan  is  saying;  she  is  divided  between  being  angry  with 
Lord  Ravenhold  for  coming,  arid  wondering  how  she  shall  be- 
have to  him. 

She  rises  and  prepares  to  join  him. 

"You  will  tell  his  lordship,  ma'am,  won't  you?"  reiterates 
Susan,  anxiously,  and  Vanessa  returns  absently: 

"  Oh,  yes.     He  won't  mind." 

Her  lip  quivers  a  little,  but  she  assumes  a  smiling,  unconcerned 
air  as  she  goes  in  to  greet  her  guest.  She  wishes  her  husband 
were  at  home,  but  he  has  gone  fishing,  and  her  father  is  in  his 
study  absorbed  in  his  beloved  work.  It  would  be  cruel  to  dis- 
turb him,  and  Vanessa  "scarcely  sees  how  he  would  benefit  the 
situation. 

An  Englishwoman  with  a  good  complexion  always  looks  her 
best  in  the  morning.  Vanessa,  in  her'  blue  batiste  with  lace  about 
her  throat  and  wrists,  is  a  notable  example  of  this  fact. 

"  How  d'you  do,  Lord  Ravenhold?"  and  she  advances  smiling. 
Ho  replies,  rejoins  rather,  .with  the  same  inevitable  question. 

There  is  a  slight  matronliness  in  Mrs.  Brandon's  manner — a 
little  air  of  being  in  her  own  house  that  makes  it  difficult  for 
Ravenhold  to  break  into  sudden  reproach,  as  he  had  been  on  the 
verge  of  doing.  That  is  all  very  well  on  neutral  grounds,  by 'a 
river's  margin,  or  on  a  chair  in  the  Row,  or  even  in  the  corner  of 
a  friend's  room,  but  when  you  call  upon  a  lady  in  her  own  house 
4fe  is  different. 

Ravenhold  puts  on  his  best  manner. 

*'  I  3111  the  bearer  of  »  round-robin,"  he  says.     "  Tht  party  tit 


T    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  127 

the  Hall  are  in  despair  at  your  having  forsaken  them.  I  ana 
charged  to  implore  you  to  come  up  to-day  to  spend  the  afternoon 
and  dine." 

Now  what  perversity  makes  Vanessa,  after  deciding  to  hersen. 
that  she  will  not  keep  away  from  the  Hall  and  be  bored  as  she 
was  yesterday,  reply: 

"  Thanks,  very  much,  but  I  do  not  think  I  shall  be  able  to  man- 
age it  to-day." 

Ravenhold's  handsome  face  darkens. 

"  A  previous  engagement,  I  suppose?" 

There  is  a  manifest  sneer  in  his  tone  as  well  as  his  words. 

Vanessa's  color  rises— she  is  not  quite  prepared  with  an  an- 
swer. 

"A  mothers'  meeting,  or  a  Bible-class,  perhaps?"  suggests 
Ravenhold,  in  still  more  biting  tones. 

"  Perhaps,"  retorts  Vanessa,  her  eyes  beginning  to  blaze  at  his 
manner. 

"  What  have  I  done?"  cries  the  young  man,  laying  aside  his 
mask.  "  Why  do  you  shun  me  as  if  I  had  the  plague?  I  came 
here,  all  the  way  from  Scotland  just  to  see  you,  and  you  won't 
look  at  or  speak  to  me,  of  come  near  the  place  because  I  am 
there." 

"Hush!"  says  Vanessa,  with  a  glance  at  the  open  window, 
feeling  that  nervousness  about  some  one  hearing  or  seeing  that 
is  the  inevitable  portion  of  a  woman  when  a  man  is  making  a 
reckless  and  inconsiderate  display  of  his  passion. 

At  this  hint  Ravenhold  modifies  the  loudness  of  his  voice,  but 
pays  no  other  attention  to  the  suggestion. 

"  At  least  tell  me  why  ?"  he  hurries  on.  "  Am  I  personally- 
offensive  to  vou,  or  what  in  Heaven's  name  have  I  said  or 
done?" 

Vanessa  feels  a  little  bit  frightened — she  is  distinctly  conscious 
that  it  is  wrong  for  Lord  Ravenhold  to  be  talking  to  her  in  this 
manner,  and  yet  his  show  of  temper  is  not  altogether  displeas- 
ing to  her.  There  is  the  element  of  excitement  in  the  situation 
which  is  an  agreeable  change  from  the  placid  monotony  of 
her  life. 

•'  You  must  really  not  talk  like  this,"  she  says. 

"  If  your  husband  objected  to  me — if  I  had  thrust  myself  upon 
you,  or  presumed  to  make  love  to  you,  it  would  be  different. 
Have  I  "  (vehemently)  **  said  one  word  of  love  to  you  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  replies  Vanessa;  then,  with  a  touch  of  mal- 
ice, ' '  Where  would  be  the  use  ?" 

"  Precisely,"  retorts  the  young  man,  with  extreme  bitterness. 
"  I  am  not  quite  a  fool.  I  have  at  least  the  sense  to  be  perfectly 
conscious  of  your  supreme  indifference  to  me." 

"That  is  right,"  replies  Vanessa,  cheerfully. 

"*  Then, "says  Ravenhold,  quoting  his  own  words  as  though 
they  had  been  hers,  "  if  you  are  so  supremely  indifferent  to  ire, 
why  avoid  me  ?" 

"  Because,"  returns  Vanessa,  again  acting  on  an  impulse  which 
is  not '-  particularly  prudent  one — "  because  it  is  the  old  story, 
and  I  have  b^en  warned  against  you  for  the  third  tim**  '* 


I8£  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

"  Upon  my  foul,  this  is  too  much!"  cries  the  young  man.  "  To 
Whom  am  I  indebted  on  this  occasion?*' 

"  I  shall  not  tell  you,"  replies  Vanessa.  "  I  am  not  a  mischief- 
maker.  Qf  course  it  is  utterly  ridiculous.  You  know  it  is,  and 
I  know  it  is,  and  my  husband  knows  it  is.  I  told  him,  and  he 
laughed  at  the  idea.  He  did  all  he  could  to  persuade  me  to  go 
yesterday,  but  I  was  so  provoked  that  I  would  not." 

Lord  Ravenhold  is  intensely  nettled. 

4 'As  you  say,"  he  observes,  in  a  voice  that  cruelly  betrays  his 
wounded  pride,  "  it  is  utterly  ridiculous,  but  sometimes  a  thing 
that  is  only  ridiculous  has  power  to  annoy.  I  will  therefore 
make  an  excuse  and  leave  the  Hall  to-morrow,  and  I  trust  that 
after  my  departure  you  will  be  able  to  resume  your  agreeable 
relations  with  the  people  up  there." 

Vanessa  is  sorry  that  she  has  been  so  hard  upon  him.  She 
had  snubbed  him  intentionally  because  he,  no  doubt,  like  the 
rest  of  the  world,  thought  himself  capable  of  endangering  her 
peace  of  mind,  and  she  would  not  rest  until  she  'had  convinced 
him  of  his  error.  Now  she  thinks  she  has  convinced  him,  and 
is  disposed  to  be  kind  again. 

"  Do  not  go  away,  and  do  not  be  offended,"  she  says.  Then, 
with  a  bewitching  smile:  "After  all,  I  think  I  can  get  off  the 
mothers'  meeting  and  the  Bible-class"  (with  meaning)  "  so  I  will 
come  up  this  afternoon,  if  you  really  think  they  want  me." 

"  They  do  really,"  returns  Ravenhold,  eagerly.  "  Sir  Bertram 
is  quite  bent  on  your  coming — he  said  I  was  to  do  my  utmost  to 
persuade  you." 

"  Instead  of  which  you  have  done  your  utmost  to  quarrel  with 
me,  and  to  be  disagreeable,"  says  Vanessa,  maliciously. 

Ravenhold  expresses  his  contrition  with  the  utmost  humility. 
He  can  afford  to  be  humble  now  that  he  has  got  what  he  wants. 
So  he  is  pardoned  and  shown  the  garden  and  various  objects  of 
interest,  and  makes  himself  so  agreeable  and  aniusipg  that  he 
leaves  Mrs.  Brandon  with  a  distinct  conviction  in  her  mind  that 
a  solitude  a  deux  is  infinitely  more  agreeable  than  the  real  bona 
fide  solitude. 

She  looks  forward  to  the  afternoon.  Sir  Bertram  thoughtfully 
sends  the  low  phaeton  for  her,  and  invites  Lord  Ravenhold  to 
charioteer  it. 

"  You  might  ask  Mrs.  Brandon  to  show  you  a  bit  of  the  park 
instead  of  coming  straight  here,"  remarks  the  squire,  but  when 
this  suggestion  is  communicated  to  Mrs.  Brandon,  she  says- at 
once  that  she  would  much  rather  go  straight  to  the  Hall.  What- 
ever he  may  feel,  Ravenhold  dares  not  show  any  more  temper 
to-day.  He  does  not  pay  any  particular  attention  to  Vanessa, 
but  seems  rather  by  way  of  making  himself  agreeable  to  Edith, 
who  receives  his  attentions  in  a  friendly  and.  as  far  as  he  is  con- 
cerned, heart-whole  manner.  Between  him  and  Mab  there  is  a 
certain  antagonism — he  is  afraid  of  her  sharp  eyes,  and  she 
wishes  him  to  know  that  she  is  watching  him  and  quite  aware 
of  his  sentiments. 

Three  or  four  days  pass  in  unbroken  harmony — not  once  haa 
Ravenliold  betrayed  any  petulance  to  Mrs  Brandon  nor  atr 


1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  ^ 

to  make  love  to  her.  It  may  be  that  his  eyes  hav®  said 
volumes  when  lie  lias  imagined,  himself  unobserved  by  the  rest 
of  the  party,  but  his  voice  has  been  respectful,  deferential, 
courteously  friendly.  Vanessa  likes  him  better  than  at  one 
time  she  thought  it  possible — he  is  certainly  very  pleasing  to 
look  upon,  and  it  is  impossible  to  feel  dull  or  bored  in  his  com- 
pany. 

One  day  her  husband  says  to  her,  smiling: 

"I  can  quite  understand  people  thinking  it  good-natured  to 
warn  you  against  Ravenhold.  He  is  a  very  good-looking  fellow, 
and  has  a  most  taking  manner." 

*•  Do  you  think  so?"  returns  Vanessa,  carelessly.  "  I  do  not 
see  anything  particularly  taking  in  him." 

And  then  she  experiences  a  sudden  shock  at  her  heart  as  she 
realizes  that  she  has  spoken  untruthfully,  insincerely.  Why 
has  she  done  so  ?  For  the  life  of  her  she  could  not  tell. 

'I  have  heard,"  says  Brandon,  who  is  no  more  capable  of 
doubting  her  than  of  uttering  a  lie  himself,  ''that  very  hand- 
some people  seldom  produce  much  effect  upon  each  other,  A 
law  of  nature,  I  suppose." 

4 'Perhaps,"  replies  Vanessa,  and  changes  the  subject. 

Lord  Ravenhold  has  been  eight  days  at  the  Hall;  on.  the  ninth 
he  is  to  leave  it — Sir  Bertram  has  ordered  a  picnic  for  his  last 
afternoon.  The  party  consists  of  six  persons— Sir  Thomas  and 
Mab,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brandon,  Lord  Ravenhold  and  the  squire. 

A  late  luncheon  has  been  consumed — the  party  have  divided 
into  pairs,  of  which  it  is  not  unnatural  that  Ravenhold  and 
Vanessa  should  make  one.  They  have  strolled  into  the  lovely 
woods  where  the  shade  is  so  grateful  this  hot  day,  and  they  have 
found  a  tree  with  a  rude  carved  seat  beneath  it,  and  there  they 
rest  from  their  labors  and  are  thankful.  Conversation  is  a  trifla 
desultory,  but  they  have  arrived  at  that  pitch  of  familiar  friend- 
ship whose  surest  sign  is  that  neither  finds  it  embarrassing  or 
impolite  to  say  nothing  if  he  has  nothing  to  say.  Ravenhold's 
occasional  silences,  however,  are  not,  in  truth,  the  result  of 
his  not  having  anything  to  say,  but  of  his  not  daring  to  say 
it.  Vanessa  feels  languid  from  the  heat  and  a  shade  depressed 
besides. 

"  This  time  to-morrow,"  says  Ravenhold,  after  a  longer  pause 
than  usual,  "  I  shall  be  in  the  train,  getting  further  and  further 
away  from  you  every  moment,  thinking  that  this  must  have 
been  the  happiest  hour  of  my  life  and  ready  to  give  everything 
I  possess  in  the  world  to  have  it  come  over  again." 

"Shall  you  ?"  utters  Vanessa.  "One  often  thinks  afterward 
that  one  was  much  happier  than  one  really  was." 

"Yes,"  he  answers,  in  a  low  voice.  "After  all,  God  knows 
that  if  what  I  feel  now  is  happiness,  it  is  scarcely  a  sensation  to 
desire  very  ardently." 

She  glances  up  at  him  and  swiftly  away  again.  Something 
she  reads  in  his  eyes  disturbs  her-^-a  little  nutter  crosses  her 
heart — she  has  not  been  afraid  to  be  with  him  before,  because  he 
has  not  betrayed  any  feeling  that  need  shock  or  alarm  her;  bufc 
now  she  wishes  that  she  had  not  come  here  alone  with  him 


1»0  7    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

Bhe  has  a  terrified  consciousness  that  he  is  n>^.'?  to  say  soioe 
ihing  which  he  ouglit  not  to  say  and  she  ought  i.ot  to  hear. 

"  Shall  you  see  Mrs.  Fane  soon':"  she  asks,  quickly,  just  for 
the  sake  of  saying  something.  But  he  does  itot  answer  her. 
Then,  perforce,  she  looks  at  him  again^  compelled  by  some  mag- 
netic power.  He  is  very  pale— his  eyes  have  dark  streaks  under 
them— his  lips  are  quivering. 
*'  Let  us  go."  she  say.,,  rising  hurriedly. 

41  No,"  and  he  lays  a  detaining  hand  on  her  arm.  "  Not  yet — 
not  just  yet/' 

She  sinks  hack  again  on  the  seat,  half  afraid  to  contradict 
him.  There  is  another  silence,  which  is  horribly  painful  and 
embarrassing  to  Vanessa.  Ravenhold  breaks  it  presently. 

"  How  you  must  laugh,"  he  says,  in  a  low,  husky  voice, 
"  when  you  think  over  the  warnings  my  people  and  other  friends 
•were  so  kind  as  to  give  you!  It  is  a  pity,  isn't  it,  that  they 
never  thought  of  warning  me  instead  ?  They  might  have  done 
BO,  because  I  am  not  so  fortunate  as  you  in  having  a  talisman 
that  makes  me  impervious  to  feeling." 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  answers,  pale  as  death,  and 
with  a  sick  feeling  of  terror  at  her  heart. 

"  Yes,"  he  says,  never  removing  his  eyes  from  her  4<  you  do. 
You  know  that  I  am  madly  in  love  with  you — that  I  am  suffer- 
ing torments  at  the  thought  of  parting  from  you — that  the  idea 
of  life  without  you  is  hateful  and  monstrous  to  me." 

Vanessa  sits  as  if  chained  to  the  spot.  A  ^sense  of  horror  and 
guilt  creeps  over  her,  as  if  by  listening  to  him  she  is  committing 
a  crime:  she  is  afraid  to  start  up  and  break  away  from  him,  be- 
cause instinct  tells  her  that  he  would  detain  her  by  main  force 
until  he  had  had  his  say. 

41  My  God!"  he  cried,  passionately,  "  when  I  think  how  per- 
versely things  happen!  Why  did  they  not  ask  me  here  this  time 
last  year,  and  then  you  would  have  loved  me  instead  of  him? 
You  would!"  vehemently,  as  though  she  had  contradicted  him= 
*'  You  must  have  done — it  \vould  have  been  fifty  times  more 
natural.  And  then  I  should  have  been  the  happiest  man  alive, 
and  I  would  have  made  you  the  happiest  woman." 

44  YTou  would  not!"  cries  Vanessa,  almost  violently.     "  I  never, 

never  could  have  cared  for  any  one  as  I  do  for  my  husband;  he 

will  always  be  more  to  me  than  ail  the  other  men  in  the  world." 

44  Are  you  quite  sure  of  that':"  says  Ravenhold,  catching  her 

hand.     She  drags  it  from  him  and  starts  up. 

'•  Quite  sure.  How  dare  you  say  these  things  to  me!  I  am 
glad  and  thankful  that  you  are  going  to-morrow,  and  I  will 
never  speak  to  you  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

She  Hies  over  the  turf— he  has  to  take  tolerably  long  strides  to 
keep  up  with  her;  he  dares  not -touch  her— he  tries  to  stammer  a 
few  propitiatory  words. 

In  the  distance  they  suddenly  see  a  solitary  figure  approach- 
ing them.  It  is  Sir  Bertram.  Vanessa  slackens  her  pace  and 
endeavors  to  assume  an  indifferent  manner  as  he  comes  up. 
But  he  marks  well  their  white  faces  and  their  unnatural ; J.. %  and 
says  with  a  diabolical  smile: 


'     .f*Vjff    LIVED     AND     LC\  i$\ 

"  Rave  you  young  people  lost  all  count  of  time?  We  nave  boon, 
waiting-  twenty  minutes  for  you.  Wluit  a  ihin.^  it  is  to  be 
young r 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

ALL  through  the  long  night  Vanessa  lies  broad  awake.  She  is 
bitterly  indignant  against  Lord  Raveiihold.  How  dared  he 
speak  so  to  her!  She  felt  it  a  sort  of  disgrace  to  have  listened 
to  such  words.  She  had  never  been  hard  upon  those  fashionable 
women  who  allowed  men  to  make  love  to  them  because  they, 
she  thought,  were  not  married  to  men  they  loved;  but  she  had 
looked  upon  herself  as  immeasurably  superior  to  them.  She 
had  not  imagined  that  any  man  would  dare  to  speak  to  her  in 
earnest  about  love.  How  glad  she  was  that  he  was  going  away, 
but  in  any  case,  she  would  not  have  seen  or  spoken  to  him. 
again. 

Weary  of  lying  awake,  she  got  up  softly  and  looked  out  of 
her  window.  There  were  red  streaks  across  the  pale  sky — the 
trees  and  the  old  ehurcii  tower  stood  out  dark  and  clear  against 
it.  After  awhile  she  turned  away.  Her  eyes  fell  on  her  hus- 
band's placid  face  as  he  lay  sleeping— what  a  kind,  good,  honest 
face  it  was!  how  different  from  that  passionate,  distorted  one, 
however  handsome,  which  had  frightened  and  made  her  angry 
to-day  I  A  sudden  impulse  seized  Vanessa  to  wake  him;  to  tell 
him  everything,  and  to  hear  him  exonerate  her  from  any  wrong- 
doing or  even  imprudence  in  having  been  alone  with  Ravenhotd 
and  compelled  to  listen  to  his  passion.  But  few  people  are  cruel 
enough  deliberately  to  rouse  a  fellow  creature  from  his  blest  ob- 
livion at  day-dawn  unless  there  is  a  train  to  be  caught,  and 
Vanessa  was  not  one  of  the  few.  She  did,  it  is  true,  move  about 
the  room  less  quietly  than  she  might  have  done,  in  the  hope  that 
he  would  unclose  his  eyes  without'  her  actually  disturbing  him, 
and  then,  most  certainly,  she  would  have  poured  out  all  her 
heart  to  him.  But  he  was  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  'just,  and 
nothing  short  of  a  vigorous  shaking  would  have  awakened  him. 

When,  at  last,  Vanessa  fell  asleep,  she  slept  heavily,  so  heavily 
that  neither  her  husband  nor  Susan  thought  fit  to  disturb  her  in 
the  morning.  It  was  half -past  nine  when  she  unclosed  her 
eyes,  still  with  a  sense  of  drowsiness  and  unaccountable  malaise, 
What  ailed  her?  She  looked  at  the  clock.  Half-past  nine!  why, 
they  must  have  finished  breakfast  How  was  it  that  no  one 
called  her? 

At  this  moment  the  handle  turned  softly,  and  her  husband 
came  in. 

"What  has  happened,  Johnnie?"  she  cries,  rubbing  her  eyes, 
"  Why  was  I  not  called  '•'" 

*'  You  were  in  such  a  sound  sleep,  my  child,  that  we  had  not 
the  heart  to  wake  you.  Susan  and  I  looked  at  you  and  con- 
sulted, arid  then  we  decided  to  leave  you  alone." 

'*  I  remember  now,"  says  Vanessa.  "  I  was  awake  all  Bight. 
It  was  broad  daylight  before  I  went  to  sleep." 

"Why,  how  was  that?"  exclaims  Brandon.     And  then,  b*a 


133  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

practical  mind  searching  for  a  probable  cause,  "Did  you  eafc 
anything  that  disagreed  with  you  last  night  V 

Vanessa  laughs. 

"  No — it  was  the  heat,  I  suppose." 

"  Ravenhold  has  just  been  here,"  says  Brandon,  sitting  down 

on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  *  *  He  was  on  his  way  to  L ,  and  seemed 

dreadfully  disappointed  not  to  be  able  to  wish  you  good-bye.  I 
am  afraid,"  smiling,  "he  is  another  victim  of  yours." 

"  Really!"  utters  Vanessa,  in  an  indifferent  tone.  She  has  no 
manner  of  inclination  to  make  any 'confidences  to  her  husband 
this  morning  on  the  subject  of  Lord  Ravenhold.  But  what  c.in 
be  said  by  a  woman  in  the  night,  or  at  day-dawn,  pillowed  on 
her  beloved's  heart,  is  one  thing — the  garish  light  of  morning 
has  the  effect  of  shutting  up  her  confiding  inclinations. 

Whilst  she  dresses,  whilst  she  gathers  roses  in  the  garden, 
whilst  she  hangs  on  her  husband's  shoulder  as  he  reads  the 
paper,  Vanessa  is  repeatedly  telling  herself  how  rejoiced  she  is 
that  Ravenhold  is  gone.  She  will  walk  up  to  the  Hall  in  the 
afternoon  and  see  the  Vaughans — how  pleasant  it  will  be  with- 
out him!  But  when  she  is  there,  it  seems  unaccountably  tame 
and  flat— the  flavor  is  gone  out  of  everything — there  is  no  doubt 
he  was  excellent  company  and  very  good  to  look  at. 

"  How  dull  it  is  without  Lord  Ravenhold!"  Edith  says.  "I 
miss  him  tremendously.  Do  not  you  ?" 

"  No,"  answers  Vanessa,  and  is  irritated  \vith  herself  for  tell- 
ing what  she  knows  to  be  a  falsehood. 

"  And  yet,"  observes  Edith,  "  you  and  he  seemed  great  friends. 
It  was  certainly  you  whom  he  came  here  to  see." 

"  Where  are  Mab  and  Sir  Thomas?"  asks  Vanessa,  not  caring 
to  pursue  the  conversation. 

"  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  them  a  few  minutes  ago.  It  is  very 
amusing  to  see  her  with  him.  is  it  not  ?" 

"Yes."  replies  Vanessa,  thoughtfully.  "But,  Edie,  I  think 
he  is  too  old  for  her.  Some  day  she  will  perhaps  be  disappointed 
in  him,  and  feel  that  she  ought  to  have  married  a  younger  man." 

"  Oh,"  says  Edith,  "'Mab  has  no  heart:  she  is  not  like  you  or 
me.  He  will  give  her  everything  she  wants.  I  don't  think  she 
wants  love." 

"  It  must  be  a  bad  thing  to  want  and  not  to  have,"  remarks 
Vanessa,  with  a  profound  sigh. 

When  Sir  Bertram  sees  her,  he  says,  pleasantly: 

"  What  a  loss  Ravenhold  is!  I  never  missed  any  one  so  much. 
He  was  the  life  and  soul  of  us  all.  What  a  cheery,  handsome 
fellow  he  is!  Devilish  handsome,  upon  my  word!  I  wonder  he 
has  not  been  snapped  up  long  ago.  Do  you  not  agree  with  me  ?" 
For  Vanessa  had  listened  unresponsive. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answers,  indifferently. 

Sir  Bertram  smiles.  He  knows  that,  if  she  really  felt  in- 
different, she  would  feign  a  litt'e  enthusiasm  out  of  simple 
politeness. 

Two  days  pass — two  long,  heavy,  leaden  .days,  which  drag 
their  length  along.  Vanessa  looks  fifty  times  at  the  clock,  and 
thinks  continually  that  the  hands  must  have  stopped.  Country 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  .Jl 

life  is  very  dull  and  monotonous  certainly,  and  there  are  v  ^ 
three  whole  weeks  to  be  got  through  before  tiuy  \v,il  return  t-5 
town.  Vanessa  takes  to  thinking.  She  sits  for  long  hours  with 
idle  hands,  lost  in  reverie.  She  hies  her  way  to  an  adjacent 
wood,  where  the  thick  foliage  shuts  out  the  sun,  and  sits  there 
deep  in  thought  and  heaving  unconsciously  profound  sighs. 
Sometimes  she  weeps  passionately.  What  has  come  to  her? 

She  has  lost  all  rancor  against  Lord  Ravenhold;  she  recalls 
that  scene  in  the  wood  with  something  of  longing;  after  all, 
there  was  excitement  in  it — it  was  better  than  this  terrible 
stagnation.  She  likes  now  almost  to  remember  the  passion  and 
pain  of  his  handsome  face  and  his  violent  words  and  manner — 
words  that  made  little  impression  upon  her  then  are  burnt  into 
her  heart  now. 

"  Why  did  not  they  ask  me  here  last  year,  and  then  you 
would  have  loved  me  instead  of  him  ?  It  would  have  been  fifty 
times  more  natural.  And  then  I  should  have  been  the  happiest 
man  alive,  and  I  would  have  made  you  the  happiest  woman." 

Would  it  have  been  eo?    At  all  events,  they  would  have  beer- 
young  together — and  Vanessa  says  to  herself  there  is  no  doiu 
that  people  ought  to  be  young  when  they  marry.     She  adoi? 
her  husband — he  is  the  best,  kindest  creature  in  the  world, 
his  day  of  passion  and  strong  feeling  is  over;  he  only  wants  to 
lead  a  comfortable,  easy,  placid  life,  and  that  does  not  satisfy 
her — she  feels  as  though  her  heart  were  intombed  alive. 

The  days  creep  by — her  reveries  continue — she  grows  hollow- 
eyed,  and  instead  of  the  country  air  bringing  fresh  roses  to  her 
cheek  it  seems  to  make  her  more  pale.  She  has  indulged  her 
reveries,  has  wept  her  bitter  tears,  and  in  all  that  has  never  be- 
lieved herself  guilty  of  a  shadow  of  treason  toward  her  hus- 
band. 

One  day  Edith  says  to  her: 

"  I  have  something  for  you.  I  had  a  letter  from  Gerard 
Ravenhold  to-day,  and  he  inclosed  one  for  you." 

Vanessa  feels  her  heart  beat  to  suffocation;  it  frightens  her. 

"  This  is  what  he  says  to  me,"  pursues  Edith,  reading  a  pas- 
sage from  her  letter:  "  *  Will  you  give  the  inclosed  to  Mrs.  Bran- 
don privately  ?  It  concerns  a  mutual  friend  of  hers  and  mine.  I 
wish  her  to  know  it,  but  not  any  one  else,  unless  of  course  she 
feels  disposed  to  tell  Mr.  Brandon.  But  that  she  will  exercisa 
her  own  discretion  about.'  " 

In  spite  of  a  severe  effort,  Vanessa's  hand  trembles  as  she 
takes  the  letter  directed  to  herself,  Edith  looks  at  her  a  little 
inquisitively,  and  feels  disappointed  when  Vanessa  puts  it  un 
opened  into  her  pocket.  If  it  had  been  Mab  she  would  have 
asked  point  blank  what  it  was  about,  but  Edith  is  reticent, 

Vanessa  does  not  attempt  to  open  the  letter  until  she  is  at 
home  locked  in  her  own  room.  Then  she  read : 

"  For  God's  sake  forgive  me!  You  would  if  you  knew  what  I 
have  suffered  and  am  suffering.  Some  day  perhaps  you  may 
know  what  it  is  to  be  as  I  am— utterly  hopeless  and  heart-broken 
Then  you  will  feel  for  me.  For  pity's  sake  think  better  of  your 
cruel  resolve  never  to  see  me  again!" 


184  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

When  Vanessa  lias  read  this,  an  awful,  death-like  chill  creep* 
through  her  heart.  This  letter  has  brought  a  revelation  to  her. 
It  is  as  though  some  voice  were  crying  aloud  in  her  ear— she 
^uts  up  both  hands  to  shut  it  out.  Then,  with  a  violent  gesture, 
•he  tears  the  paper  across  and  across  and  flings  it  into  the  grate. 
Not  content  with  that,  she  lights  a  match  and  burns  every 
morsel.  Would  to  God  she  could  burn  the  memory  with  the 
writing!  But  she  has  a  faithful  and  courageous  heart — she  is 
not  one  of  those  who  *•  let  themselves  go" — she  fights  bravely, 
and  in  time  comes  to  think  that  she  has  conquered.  From  this 
moment  she  changes  her  mode  of  life.  No  more  solitary  ram- 
bles, no  more  reveries  in  the  wood;  if  she  can  help  it,  she  will 
not  be  alone.  She  reads,  walks,  works  with  a  sort  of  fury — she 
4reads  idleness  and  its  consequences  as  much  as  Mr.  Watts  did. 
Ahe  persuades  her  husband  to  take  long  rides  and  walks  with 
her — she  goes  up  every  day  to  the  Hall  and  plays  lawn-tennis  or 
croquet.  Edith  finds  her  less  sympathetic  than  formerly;  she 
does  not  seem  inclined  to  talk  about  love — indeed,  she  rather 
affects  the  younger  sister's  company,  and  laughs  when  Mab  de- 
rides the  tender  passion. 

John  Brandon,  utterly  confident  and  unsuspicious,  is  de- 
lighted at  the  improvement  in  her  spirits— the  country  has,  after 
all,  done  her  the  good  he  expected  it  wrould;  he  does  not  remark 
that  she  has  a  harassed,  restless  air,  and  seems  incapable  of  be- 
ing quiet — he  only  sees  that  she  is  very  cheerful  and  busy  and  in 
excellent  spirits.  She  never  throws  herself  on  his  breast  in  a 
flood  of  tears  now — moonlight  nights  seem  no  longer  to  have 
the  effect  on  her  that  they  had  a  month  ago;  instead  of  being 
sentimental,  she  is  full  of  vivacity.  He  does  not  know  that 
sometimes,  when  he  is  sleeping  soundly,  she  steals  away  into  the 
next  room,  and,  shutting  the  door  behind  her,  throws  open  the 
windows,  and,  leaning  her  arms  on  the  sill,  with  her  face  buried 
in  them,  cries  out  the  passion  and  grief  of  her  heart.  By  morn- 
ing the  traces  of  her  tears  are  gone — he  sees  nothing,  suspects 
nothing.  If  once  and  again  a  mad  desire  takes  her  to  confess 
her  feelings  to  him — to  say  to  him,  "Be  what  you  were  last 
year:  heap  love  and  caresses  upon  me  so  that  you  shut  out  all 
other  thoughts  from  my  heart:  it  is  not  his  love  I  want,  but 
'ours — only  love  I  must  have,"  she  does  not  act  on  the  impulse, 
and  he  does  not  suspect  it.  Vanessa  is  glad  wrhen  the  timt 
comes  to  go  back  to  London.  She  leaves  her  father  and  Susan 
with  regret,  but  country  life  has  grown  intolerable  to  her — there 
t-s  too  much  time  to  think. 

She  goes  shopping;  she  occupies  herself  with  decorating  and 
beautifying  her  house;  she  furnishes  a  boudoir  for  herself;  she 
sings  and  plays;  she  reads  hundreds  of  books.  She  often  makes 
her  husband  take  her  to  the  play,  but  when  the  piece  treats 
much  of  love,  it  gives  her  the  heartache.  She  feels  more  than 
ever  the  want  of  air.  and  takes  long  walks  send  drives.  When 
she  passes  the  deserted  Row,  she  thinks  with  a  sort  of  pang  of 
the  past  season,  and  a  vague  terror  and  wonder  seizes  her  as  to 
tvhat  will  happen  next  year. 

One  wet  afternoon. of  late  October  she  is  sitting  in          draw* 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  135 

ing-room — her  boudoir  is  not  yet  finished — c--ie  has  not  even 
heard  the  bell,  when,  suddenly,  the  door  opens  and  Lord  Raven- 
hold  is  announced.  Her  heart  stands  still — she  starts  up,  first 
hot,  then  cold.  .But  he  conies  forward  smiling,  unembarrassed, 
as  though  he  had  never  said  violent  and  passionate  words  to 
her;  as  though  he  had  never  written  to  her  about  his  broken 
heart.  On  the  contrary,  he  is  cheery  and  debonair,  tells  her  of 
his  doings,  his  amusements,  his  sport;  has  little  stories  of  people 
whom  she  knows,  and  talks  generally  in  a  gay  and  heart- whole 
strain.  And  next  month,  he  tells  her,  he  is  going  to  India  to 
shoot  big  game. 

An  unacknowledged  sense  of  disappointment,  of  mortification, 
steals  to  Vanessa's  heart,  whilst,  all  the  time,  she  is  trying  to  tell 
herself  how  glad  she  is  that  he  has  forgotten  his  fancy  and  that 
he  is  inclined  to  be  friendly  with  her — nothing  more.  She  has  a 
bitter  thought,  too,  about  the  value  of  a  passion  like  his  lord- 
ship's. Whilst  he  is  still  with  her,  Brandon  comes  in,  greete 
him  cordially,  and  asks  him  to  dine.  He  accepts  with  evident 
pleasure^  During  the  next  fortnight  he  is  constantly  with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Brandon— he  dines  with  them  and  they  with  him— they 
go  frequently  to  the  play  together,  Vanessa  finds  his  company 
delightful;  his  manner  is  charming;  he  is  full  of  spirits  and  fun 
— he  seems  to  take  almost  as  much  pleasure  in  her  husband's 
company  as  in  hers. 

She  wonders  sometimes  if  she  dreamed  that  scene  in  the  wood. 
Then  she  says  to  herself  that,  being  away  from  Lady  Mildred, 
he  wanted  to  play  at  making  love  to  some  one,  and  tried  to  keep 
his  hand  in  with  her.  It  was  fortunate  for  her  that  she  was  riot 
impressionable,  and  that  she  was  devoted  to  her  husband.  But 
there  were  moments,  even  now,  when  she  was  not  quite  sure 
what  his  feelings  for  her,  or  hers  for  him,  really  were. 

He  touched  her  hand  by  accident  or  design;  his  eyes  met  hers, 
and  then  her  heart  would  become  like  wax  before  a  flame,  and 
afterward  she  would  be  angry  with  herself  and  with  him. 

The  time  for  his  departure  drew  nigh;  it  only  wanted  two  days 
of  it.  Vanessa  told  herself  that  she  was  glad  he  was  going;  the 
last  fortnight  had  been  delightful,  but  she  had  a  misgiving 
whether  it  had  been  very  good  for  her.  Truth  was,  the  time 
spent  in  his  company  was  too  happy,  while  the  hours  away 
fr.om  him  were  too  long  and  dull,  and  she  could  not  settle  to 
anything.  . 

The  dusk  was  creeping  on.  Vanessa  was  sitting  with  idle, 
listlesi  hands,  looking  at  the  little  spurts  of  flame  in  the  fire, 
when  Lord  Ravenhold  was  announced.  She  had  not  expected 
kirn. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  came,"  she  says,  rising  and  smiling,  as  she 
put  her  hand  into  his.  "I  was  feeling  rather  bored.  Tell  me 
something  amusing." 

" 1  have  con>e  to  tell  you  something,"  he  answers,  and,  in  a 
moment,  she  *e««  there  is  an  unusual  constraint  in  his  voice 
and  manaer.  "  I  don't  know  whether  you  will  final  it  amus- 
ing." 


136  T    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

Vanessa  grows  pale;  an  uneasy  sensation  creeps  through  ha* 
heart,  she  shivers  ever  so  little. 

Raven  hold  takes  a  chair  near  hers. 

"  I  have  thrown  up  my  part,"  he  says,  looking  hard  at  her. 
"  Did  you  know  that  I  had  been  acting  all  this  time  "?' 

Vanessa's  eyes  fall  before  his;  she  tries  to  think  of  something 
to  say  to  avert  the  catastrophe  which  she  feels  to  be  impending. 
But  no  inspiration  comes  to  her. 

*'  We  have  been  playing  at  being  friends,"  he  goes  on,  "  and1 
is  a  farce,  at  all  events,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

"  Why  should  we  not  be  friends?"  asks  Vanessa,  speaking  very 
fast,  "  it  has  been  so  pleasant." 

"Has  it:''  he  echoes.  "  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  it  lias 
not  been  pleasant  to  me.  I  have  been  on  the  point  of  breaking 
out  fifty  times.  It  was  all  a  deception  from  the  first.  I  only 
made  a  pretense  of  friendliness  because  I  was  afraid  of  you; 
because  I  thought  you  would  keep  your  word  and  show  me  the 
door  if  I  ventured  to  betray  my  real  feelings." 

His  face  is  white;  the  firelight  shows  the  emotion  that  is 
working  in  it. 

"  Please  do  not  talk  so,  Lord  Ravenhold,"  says  Vanessa,  trying 
to  speak  coldly.  "  You  know  it  is  useless,  and  much  worse  than 
useless,  wrong.  Do  not  let  us  quarrel  just  as  you  are  going 
away." 

"  I  would  not  have  spoken,"  he  says,  in  a  low  voice,  of  which 
she  catches  the  tremor,  "  if  I  had  not  known,  in  spite  of  what 
you  say,  that  you  care  for  me.  Oh,  darling " 

He  tries  to  take  her  hand,  but  she  pushes  her  chair  back 
sharply  and  rises  to  her  feet.  He  rises  too. 

'•  Do  not  touch  me!"  she  cries,  in  a  smothered  voice.  "  If  you 
come  a  step  nearer,  I  will  leave  you!" 

He  stands  looking  at  her,  full  of  fierce  emotions  of  love  and 
anger. 

1 "  Why  do  you  keep  up  this  pretense  ?"  he  cries,  passionately. 
"  You  know  that  we  love  each  other.  I  have  read  it  in  your 
eyes  a  hundred  times.  I  ask  nothing  of  you — I  hope  nothing 
from  you — only  confess  it  once;  let  me  hear  it  from  your  own 
lips,  and  I  shall  go  away  happy." 

Vanessa  is  terrified  at  his  words;  at  her  own  feelings — shs 
takes  refuge  in  anger. 

"  How  dare  you  say  such  things  to  me!"  she  cries.  "  And  it  is 
quite  false.  I  care  for  no  one  but  my  husband.  And  you  pre- 
tend to  be  his  friend!  Have  you  no  sense  of  honor  ?" 

"Can  I  help  itr1"  he  says,  fiercely.  "I  wish  to  God  I  had 
never  set  eyes  on  you.  My  life  has  been  a  curse  to  me  ever 
since  I  have  known  you." 

"  It  shall  be  a  curse  no  more,''  she  answers.  "  I  said 
before  I  would  never  see  nor  speak  to  you  again.  This  time  I 
mean  it." 

And  before  he  can  guess  her  intention,  she  flies  to  a  book-stand 
and  brings  out  a  Bible. 

"  There!**  she  cries,  panting  and  trembling  as  slie  puts  her  lips 
to  it,  "  I  5^*.  ear  011  this  that  I  will  never  willingly  speak  to 


/    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  137 

you  again,  and  that  I  will  never  be  alone  \\Il.li  you  from  this 
moment. " 

It  is  positive  fear  that  impels  her  to  this  violent  step — a  dread- 
ful doubt  of  herself  that  assails  her  and  makes  her  mitarust 
her  own  strength. 

"  Now,"  she  cries,  "  go." 

There  is  something  so  majestic,  so  grand-  in  her  air,  that 
Kavenhold  has  no  choice  but  to  obey  her. 

"  Will  you  not  at  least  bid  me  good-bye  ?"  he  says,  holding  out 
his  hand. 

"  No!"  she  cries,  and  puts  both  hers  behind  her  back. 

"Ah!"  he  says,  bitterly.  "  Some  day  you  will  think  of  this. 
Some  day  when  you  know  what  it  is  you  will  not  be  so  hard  — 
when  you  are  tortured  like  I  am,  then,  perhaps,  you  will  be 
sorry!" 

He  stands  a  moment  waiting  for  her  to  repent;  but  she  only 
*ets  her  teeth  harder  together  and  makes  another  imperious 
gesture. 

So  he  goes,  and  when  she  hears  the  door  close  upon  him,  she 
files  up-stairs  to  her  room  and  throws  herself  on  the  floor  with 
cries  and  sobs.  And  all  that  night  and  the  next  day  and  the  day 
after,  until  she  knows  he  is  gone,  she  is  tormented  by  a  mad 
desire  to  write  to  him  or  go  to  him.  and  put  her  hand  in  his  and 
Bay: 

*'  Forgive  me.     Good-bye,  and  God  bless  yon!" 

But  she  conquers  it. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

GREAT  catastrophes  do  not  generally  ^  take  long  to  happen. 
One  moment  we  are  smiling  and  happy,  the  next  our  hearts  are 
broken;  one  moment  we  are  in  the  flush  of  health,  the  next  we 
are  crushed  and  maimed  beyond  recognition. 

John  Brandon  was  hurrying  home  to  his  wife.  He  had  got 
away  earlier  than  he  expected  from  business,  and  was  pleasing 
himself  with  the  thought  of  giving  her  an  agreeable  surprise. 
Just  as  the  hansom  was  within  a  few  yards  of  his  own  house, 
the  door  opened  hastily  and  a  man  ran  down  the  steps.  It  was 
Lord  Ravenhold.  Brandon  was  about  to  call  to  him  when,  by 
the  light  of  the  gas-lamp,  he  saw  the  white  excited  look  on  the 
young  man's  face.  Instantly  it  struck  him  that  he  had  been  de- 
claring his  passion  to  his  wife.  As  yet,  however,  no  misgiving 
crossed  his  brain — his  confidence  in  Vanessa  was  unbounded; 
indeed,  he  felt  half  disposed  to  be  sorry  for  the  lad. 

He  went  up-stairs  into  the  drawing-room.  It  was  empty,  and 
the  door  stood  open;  he  looked  into  the  unfinished  boudoir,  but 
all  was  darkness.  Then  he  went  up  to  her  room  by  way  of  his 
dressing-room .  His  hand  was  on  the  door  when  a  sound  from 
within  made  him  pause.  He  listened.  Again  and  again  there 
came  convulsive  sobs  and  cries  smothered  but  heart-breaking. 
Then,  suddenly,  as  he  stood  there,  the  truth  flashed  upon  him; 
the  awful,  bitter  truth.  She  loved  Ravenhold.  Softly,  lest  she 
should  hear  him,  he  went  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  leaned  his 


158  1    HAVE    LIVED     AND     LVVKu, 

head  against  the  back  of  it  and  clasped  his  hands  tight  together 
What  a  blind  fool  he  had  been  these  last  thirteen  months,  to 
think  that  the  love  of  a  common-place,  middle-aged  man  waa 
enough  to  satisfy  a  beautiful  young  worn  .in  just  entering  upon 
life!  lie  remembered  now  all  his  misgivings  before  he  married 
her;  his  conviction  that  when  she  saw  young  handsome  men  she 
would  feel  that  he  had  taken  an  unfair  advantage  of  her  igno- 
rance of  the  world.  He  recalled  her  fits  of  crying,  her  change- 
ful moods;  he  understood  them  now;  they  were  the  outcome  of 
her  disappointment,  the  evidence  of  an  unsatisfied  heart.  If  he 
had  read  them  earlier,  if  instead  of  his  blind  foolish  confidence 
in  hi r:!. self  and  in  her  love,  he  had  looked  for  the  cause  and 
grasped  it,  might  things  have  gone  differently  ? 

He  did  not  blame  her,  no  jealous  rage  against  Ravenhold 
rushed  into  his  heart  He  felt  nothing  but  an  immense  pity  for 
them,  an  immense  regret  that  he  stood  between  his  beloved  and 
happiness.  He  knew  now  how  right  his  first  impulse  had  been 
to  wait  until  she  had  had  the  opportunity  of  seeing  other  men. 
and  how  wrongly  he  had  done  afterward  in  snatching  at  his  hap- 
piness for  fear  it  should  evade  him.  Thirteen  months  of  bliss, 
and  011!  at  this  moment  how  far  more  he  prized  it,  how  far 
dearer  it  seemed  to  him,  than  it  had  done  whilst  it  was  his! 
And  now  it  was  gone.  He  could  never  be  happy  again;  remorse 
would  always  stand  between  him  and  her;  he  would  always 
suspect,  however  kind  and  affectionate  she  might  be  to  him, 
that  her  heart  was  with  that  other.  He  had  perfect  confidence 
in  her  outward  fidelity;  he  did  not  for  one  instant  doubt  but 
that  she  had  repulsed  any  overtures  Ravenhold  had  made;  hi* 
face  bore  token  to  his  suffering  and  disappointment.  At  this 
moment  another  stifled  sob  struck  on  Brandon's  ear.  It  pierced 
his  very  soul;  he  shut  his  ears  not  to  hear,  and  then  an  impulse 
seized  him  to  go  to  her,  to  gather  her  to  his  aching  heart  and  to 
comfort  her.  If  he  had  done  so,  how  well  it  would  have  been 
for  both!  If  Vanessa  could  have  known  that  he  was  there, 
broken-hearted  and  guessing  all,  she  might  have  gone  to  him; 
have  laid  her  head  on  his  faithful  breast  and  forgotten  Raven- 
hold.  But  Fate  arranges  matters  her  own  way  and  stands  and 
jeers  at  our  helplessness  and  blindness  the  while,  most  of  all  at 
our  delusion  in  thinking  we  are  free  agents. 

After  a  time,  Brandon  went  down  into  his  own  room  and  took 
a  book,  that  he  might  pretend  to  be  reading  if  any  one  should 
enter. 

And  there,  Vanessa,  with  a  smiling  face  and  shining  eyes,  fol- 
lowed by  her  pug,  finds  him.  The  dog  jumps  on  him  and  makes 
much  of  him,  and  his  mistress  says  in  a  gay  tone: 

"  Why,  Johnnie,  have  you  come  in  and  never  been  to  see 
me?"  and  she  stoops  and  kisses  the  top  of  his  head. 

44 1  went  into  the  drawing-room,"  he  answers,  •'*  but  you  were 
not  there." 

He  cannot  meet  her  eyes;  he  has  a  guilty  feeling  as  if  he  had 
gained  possession  of  her  secret  by  unfair  means. 

All  that  evening  he  remark*  that  her  manner  is  unnatural  and 
constrained-  that  sh«  Affects  extreme  gayety  and  liveliness; 


/    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  139 

6ut,  if  his  sense  of  observation  had  not  beeji  quickened  by  his 
knowledge,  he  would  ha've  noticed  nothing  forced  in  her  manner 
And  would  have  imagined  her  to  be  in  the  best  of  spirits.  Va- 
nessa was  so  taken  up  with  playing  her  own  part  that  she  did 
not  perceive  how  sad  and  depressed  her  husband  was,  and 
that  he  was  making  an  immense  effort  to  talk.  It  might 
fcave  struck  her  as  odd  that  he  did  not  once  mention  Lord 
jRavenhold,  who  was  rather  a  favorite  topic  with  him,  but  she 
was  only  too  thankful  at  not  being  called  upon  to  utter  his 
name. 

The  next  day  it  did  certainly  occur  to  her  to  wonder  how 
riie  could  account  to  him  for  Lord  Ravenhold  not  coming  to 
bid  her  good-bye,  but  shfe  was  relieved  from  this  difficulty  by  a 
note  which  Brandon  handed  her  when  he  came  home  in  the 
afternoon. 

"  Here  is  a  note  from  Ravenhold/'  he  said,  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone,  and  then  went  out  of  the  room. 

Vanessa  read: 

'*  DEAR  BRANDON, — I  hope  you  and  Mrs.  Brandon  will  not 
think  me  very  rude  for  not  coming  to  wish  you  good-bye  and  to 
thank  you  for  all  your  kindness  and  hospitality.  I  am  suddenly 
called  away,  and  shall  not  be  in  town  again  before  I  start.  Once 
more,  many  thanks.  Please  make  my  excuses  to  Mrs.  Brandon. 
If  I  am  lucky  enough  to  kill  a  tiger,  I  will  send  her  the  skin. 
"  Yours  ever, 

"  RAVENHOLD." 

Vanessa  read  it  twice.  How  dry  and  cold  it  seemed!  What 
men  write  (to  a  woman's  mind)  very  often  counterbalances  what 
they  say.  She  goes  to  the  window  and  presses  her  forehead 
against  the  pane,  and  clinches  her  teeth  and  her  hands  to  keep 
the  tears  back.  He  is  going  away— he  will  amuse  himself— he 
will  forget  it  is  always  the  woman's  doom  to  stay  behind  and 
think.  To  think!  oh,  cruel  pain!  to  act!  blessed  anodyne!  Men 
act  and  women  think. 

The  months  pass.  Husband  and  wife  both  suffer  in  silence, 
whilst  outwardly  their  manner  to  each  other  undergoes  no 
change,  except  that,  perhaps,  there  is  even  a  greater  show  of 
kindness  and  affection  between  them.  Brandon  suffers  the 
most,  because  he  suffers  for  her  as  well  as  for  himself— he  is 
constantly  trying  to  read  her  thoughts— he  is  afraid  of  caressing 
her  for  fear  lie  should  repel  and  disgust  her,  however  well  she 
may  appear  to  receive  his  affection.  But  there  he  is  wrong. 
She  is  still  devoted  to  him,  in  a  different  way  from  formerly;  his 
kindness  and  affection  comfort  and  soothe  her.  She  forbids  her- 
self to  cherish  thoughts  of  Ravenhold— what  she  suffers  is  that 
immense  void  which  the  absence  of  the  being  who  has  called 
forth  the  deepest  feeling  of  our  lives  creates.  It  is  the  weariness 
vrhich  comes  from  the  quiet  routine  of  domestic  life  when  the 
mental  palate  has  been  stimulated  by  unnatural  food — by  ex- 
citement and  strong  emotions.  Fashionable  women,  when  at- 
tacked by  pangs  of  the  heart,  plunge  into  a  vortex  of  so-called 
fc'jyi-tv  fo  irown  them,  with  what  success  eacii  or>*  knowB  who 


140  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

comes  home  jaded  and  weary  in  body  but  suffering  none  the  less 
keenly  in  mind.  Vanessa  longed  to  take  refuge  in  society  from 
the  monotony  of  her  life,  but,  just  at  this  season,  very  few  of 
her  friends  were  in  town,  and  there  was  little  going  on. 

In  December,  Mrs.  Fane  came  to  Grosvenor  Place,  and  the  two 
ladies  saw  a  good  deal  of  each  other  as  long  as  she  remained. 
One  wet  afternoon,  they  were  silting  over  the  boudoir  fire. 
Mrs.  Fane  had  given  orders  that  no  one  was  to  be  admitted. 

"  I  am  quite  sure  there  is  not  a  creature  in  town  I  want  to 
gee,"  she  says,  laughing.  "  So  there  is  no  chance  of  the  usual 
retribution  falling  upon  me  of  the  very  person  being  sent  away 
whom  I  most  want  to  see.  It  is  such  a  bore  having  lost  Pere- 
grine. He  used,  by  some  marvelous  intuition,  to  know  exactly 
who  the  people  were  I  wished  to  see  and  when  I  did  not  want  to 
be  disturbed.  I  never  remember  his  making  a  mistake.  This 
man  is  utterly  unimaginative,  and  only  does  just  what  he  is  told 
to  the  very  letter.  He  has  no  idea  that  there  could  be  any  ex- 
ceptions to  my  *  not  at  home,'  and  I  cannot  very  well  give  him  a 
list.  Then  there  would  be  complications,  because  certain  people 
might  be  on  the  list  whom  I  wanted  to  see  separately  but  not  to- 
gether. Peregrine  understood  it  all.  Why  will  your  favorite 
butler  always  marry  your  favorite  maid  and  leave  you  to  set  up 
a  lodging  house  ?  I  suppose  none  of  us  know  when  we  are  well 
off." 

And  the  little  lady  sighs. 

"Now,  my  dear,"  she  continues,  "we  will  enjoy  ourselves. 
We  will  have  tea  and  be  cozy — if  we  have  anything  to  say  we 
will  talk,  and  if  not,  we  will  be  silent.  What  a  comfort  it  is 
when  two  people  get  beyond  company  manners  and  are  no 
longer  afraid  of  a  pause  in  the  conversation!" 

So  they  chat  and  drink  their  tea — the  room  is  charmingly  half 
lighted  in  a^manner  inviting  to  reverie— beautiful  green  and  blue 
lights  are  burning  fitfully  in  a  log  of  old  ship  wood  on  the  fire, 
and  presently  the  pair  relapse  into  silence. 

Men  are  wrong  who  assert  that  there  is  never  any  genuine 
friendship  between  women.  I  doubt  if  two  men  ever  feel  so 
happy  and  contented  in  each  other's  society  as  two  women  do 
who  are  really  congenial  to  and  fond  of  each  other.  Of  course 
the  disturbing  element  which  men  hold  to  be  inevitable  may 
creep  in,  but  many  women  prize  the  friendship  of  one  of  their 
own  sex  too  highly  to  sacrifice  it  to  vanity  or  a  passing  caprice. 

Where  are  Vanessa's  thoughts  and  where  Hermione's  ?  Look- 
ing hard  at  them,  one  may  read  in  their  faces  that  something  in 
each  heart  goes  to  mar  that  outward  personal  bien-etre  which 
the  charm  of  their  surroundings  gives  them. 

There  has  been  a  silence  of  considerable  duration:  then  Mrs. 
Fane,  glancing  across  at  Vanessa,  says: 

"  What  a  happy  woman  you  are!  I  don't  suppose  you  have 
even  that  one  traditional  crumpled  rose-leaf  to  disturb  your 
comfort!" 

Vanessa  looks  up  and  smiles.  If  Hermione  were  not  rooted  in 
ker  conviction  of  Mrs.  Brandon's  well-being,  she  might  per- 


T~HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  141 

ceive  that  the  smile  is  not  altogether  that  of  a  serenely  happy 
woman. 

"  I  am  not  a  sentimental  person,"  pursues  Hermione;  "  indeed, 
most  people  say  that  I  have  not  an  atom  of  heart,  but  I  am  quite 
sure,"  with  conviction,  "that  the  only  thing  which  can  make 
one  happy  is  love.  I  don't  mean  what  most  people  understand 
by  the  word;  I  mean  a  good,  pure,  wholesome,  lasting  love. 
Oh,  Nessa!"  and  the  little  lady's  eyes  fill  with  tears,  "  if  I  had 
had  your  chances,  what  a  different  woman  I  should  have  been!" 

She  does  not  read  the  trouble  in  Vanessa's  eyes,  nor  guess  in 
the  remotest  manner  that  she  has  stabbed  her  friend, 

"  I  dare  say,"  she  goes  on,  looking  into  the  fire  and  with  a  cer- 
tain tremulousness  in  her  voice — "  I  dare  say  you  think  I  am  a 
heartless  little  butterfly,  bent  solely  on  amusing  myself;  you 
have  heard  me  jeer  at  love  and  domestic  bliss;  I  have  pretended 
to  laugh  at  you  sometimes.  It  is  because,"  with  a  little  sob,  "  I 
don't  want  the  world  to  know  the  truth.  I  should  hate  people, 
most  people,  to  think  that  I  suffer.  I  like  them  to  envy  me; 
when  your  friends  pity  you,  they  always  despise  you  a  little  at 
the  same  time.  But  I  don't  mind  you,"  and  Hermione  leaves 
her  chair  and  comes  and  sits  on  the  rug  at  Vanessa's  feet. 

Vanessa  stoops  and  kisses  her  bright  hair. 

"  And  I  always  thought  you  were  the  happiest  woman  in  the 
world,"  she  says. 

"  If  you  knew!"  utters  Hermione,  her  lips  quivering.  "  Bttt," 
with  something  of  her  usual  vivacity,  "  after  all,  one  of  the 
greatest  consolations  in  life  is  that  you  can  take  people  in ;  that 
you  can  make  them  envy  you  and  think  you  tremendously 
happy,  when  all  the  time  you  are  eating  your  heart  out.  How 
delighted  they  would  be  if  they  knew!  How  they  would  grin 
and  chuckle!  It  is  a  very  horrid  trait  in  human  nature,  that 
being  so  awfully  pleased  when  our  friends  come  to  grief,  or  are 
disappointed  and  mortified." 

"On,  my  dear,"  interrupts  Vanessa,  "how  can  you  think  so 
badly  of  human  nature  ?" 

"It  is  gospel  truth,"  replies  Mrs.  Fane,  gravely;  "that  is,  of 
society's  human  nature;  nothing  is  so  delightful  to  people  as 
their  friend's  misfortune.  They  seem  somehow  to  think  that 
your  moral  and  social  failures  do  them  good  and  help  them  on. 
If  you  break  your  leg,  or  have  a  dreadful  illness,  perhaps  they 
may  be  sorry  /unless  they  want  you  kept  out  of  the  way;-  but  if 
you  lose  your  money  or  your  reputation,  or  suffer  some  great 
social  disappointment,  they  rejoice.  Oh,  yes,  my  dear,  they  do. 
I  have  known  the  feeling  myself,  although  I  am  bound  to  say  I 
had  the  decency  to  be  ashamed  of  it,  and  to  pretend  that  I  was 
very  sorry.  There  was  a  time,"  half  laughing,  half  serious, 
"  when  I  envied  you  so  much  that  I  believe  it  would  have  done 
me  good  to  hear  that  Mr.  Brandon  beat  you  and  swore  at  you  in 
private,  or  that  you  were  secretly  in  love  with  some  other  man. 
But  now,"  pressing  Vanessa's  hand  affectionately,  "  I  am  so  fond 
of  you  that  I  rejoice  at  your  happiness  and  don't  envy  it  a  bit, 
though  I  should  like  to  share  it." 

Vanessa  makes  a  great  effort  to  stifle  the  sigh  which  oppresses 


148  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

her  heart,  to  keep  back  the  tears  that  tremble?  on  her  eyelids 
Hermione  is  not  looking  at  her,  but  into  the  fitful-colored  flame. 

"  What  pleasure  is  there  in  rushing  about  from  place  to  place 
after  excitement,"  she  pursues,  *'  in  dancing  and  flirting  and 
spending  heaps  of  money  in  trying  to  amuse  one's  self  and  fail- 
ing utterly  to  do  it,  when  you  know  there  is  only  one  tiling  in 
thQ  world  that  could  make  you  happy  ?  If  I  had  a  man  whom  I 
dared  to  love,  who  loved  me  better  than  any  one  in  the  world,  I 
would  give  up  all  the  rest  to-morrow.  If  I  could  lay  my  head 
on  his  heart  and  feel  his  hand  clasp  mine,  and  tell  him  every 
thought  that  came  into  my  heart  just  as  it  came,  and  know  that 
he  sympathized  with  it  and  loved  everything  I  said  and  did  be- 
cause I  said  and  did  it,  I  would  give  up  riches,  and  society,  and 
vanity  to-morrow.  I  mean  if  I  could  do  it  lawfully.  The  other 
thing  isn't  worth  having;  it  is  a  torment,  an  uncertainty,  an 
agonizing  dread,  a  few  hours  of  madness  and  the  remorse  of  all 
your  life.  I  could  never  be  such  a  fool  as  to  do  wrong.  I  can 
conjecture  too  well  what  it  feels  like  afterward." 

Vanessa  listens,  and  finds  no  word  to  answer.  Then  Hermione 
lifts  her  eyes  to  her  friend's  face  and  says,  in  a  broken  voice: 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  if  you  knew  how  bad  it  is  to  have  a  husband 
who  hates  and  curses  you,  who,  you  know,  would  rejoice  if  you 
died,  or  if  misfortune  befell  you." 

"  Hush,  dear,''  interrupts  Vanessa,  stroking  her  hair — "  do  not 
talk  like  that!  Every  one  knows  that  if  your  husband  does  not 
appreciate  you,  it  is  his  own  fault." 

"  Ah!"  says  Hermione,  with  tears  raining  down  her  face,  "  that 
does  not  take  the  sting  away.  If  twenty  men  would  give  their 
lives  for  me  to-morrow:  if  a  hundred  thought  I  was  the  best  and 
nicest  woman  in  the  world,  it  would  not  make  it  one  whit  less 
bitter  to  me  that  the  one  who  ought  to  love  and  care  for  me  hates 
me.  Why  should  he  ?  I  feel  it  and  resent  it  every  time  I  think 
of  it.  He  may  be  a  lout,  and  haVe  low  tastes,  but,  all  the  same, 
I  feel  it  a  disgrace  to  be  hated  by  him.  Ah,  if  you  knew  what 
it  is  to  me  sometimes  to  think  that  I  am  living  on  his  money, 
that  he  is  tied  to  me  and  cannot  get  away  from  me,  though  he 
loathes  his  chain!  It  drives  me  almost  mad.  I  have  wild 
thoughts  of  going  away  somewhere,  and  living  on  my  own  mis- 
erable five  hundred  a  year.  You  see  I  have  all  this  " — with  a  wave 
of  her  hand—  **  from,  him,  but  he  gets  absolutely  nothing  from 
me,  and  it  makes  me  feel  mean.  I  hate  and  despise  him,  and 
vet  I  cannot  help  seeing  his  side  of  the  case.  That  woman  who 
is  his  mistress  would  be  his  wife  if  it  were  not  for  me — his  chil- 
dren would  be  legitimate,  and  he  would  not  be  living  in  open 
sin.  She  may  be  a  low  woman — she  might  perhaps  have  been  a 
disgrace  to  the  family ;  but  he  loves  her,  and  it  is  a  greater  dis- 
grace as  it  is." 

* '  But,"  exclaims  Vanessa, anxious  to  soothe  her,  "it  was  nu 
fault  of  yours — you  did  not  know  of  it.  You  thought  he  waa 
fond  of  you;  you  meant  to  be  a  good  wife  to  him." 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  think?"  says  Hermione,  raising  her 
•yes  to  her  friend's  face  with  so  mournful  an  expression  that 
BO  one  would  have  recognized  the  gay  Mrs.  Fane.  "  Thu  Ls 


.  1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    L?)VED.  143 

my  idea  about  marriage.  I  am  not  very  religious.  Most  people 
probably  imagine  that  I  have  not  a  spark  of  anything  but  world- 
liness  in  me,  but  that  does  not  alter  the  fact.  I  think  that 
when  you  mean  to  marry,  you  should  ask  yourself  first  if  you 
love  the  man;  not  if  you  *  think  you  can  just  tolerate  him,  but 
whether  you  can  love  him,  whether,  if  he  lost  his  fortune,  or  title, 
or  whatever  it  might  be,  you  could  face  the  world  with  him,  and 
feel  that,  no  matter  what  came,  if  you  had  each  other,  you  could 
bear  the  rest.  And  then  you  ought  to  ask  God's  blessing  on 
your  marriage,  and  you  ought  to  be  able  to  feel  as  if  He  ap- 
proved of  it.  When  I  married,  I  married  simply  because  I 
thought  the  best  thing  in  life  was  to  have  lots  of  money  and  a 
good  position.  I  knew  I  did  not  love  Mr.  Fane,  although  he  was 
not  repulsive  to  me.  His  touch  did  not  make  my  flesh  creep — 
women  do  marry  men  to  whom  they  fee]  like  that— does  it  not 
seem  too  horrible!  But  I  never  thought  about  God  in  the  mat- 
ter— my  whole  mind  was  occupied  with  the  idea  that  I  was 
making  a  good  match,  that  the  settlements  were  all  right,  and 
that  I  should  be  able  to  spend  as  much  money  on  my  dress  as  I 
liked.  And  my  punishment  has  been  quite  a  fair  one,  I  sup- 
pose," Hermione  ends  up,  thoughtfully.  "I  asked  for  money, 
and  freedom,  and  what  the  world  values.  J  have  got  them.  I 
never  thought  of  asking  for  God's  blessing  and  my  husband's 
love,  and  I  have  had  to  do  without  them." 

And  then  silence,  a  long  silence,  falls  upon  the  two  beautifid 
women  as  they  sit,  hand  clasping  hand,  each  intent  on  her  own 
thoughts. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

AGAIN  Hermione  is  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"  I  cannot  help  smiling  now,"  she  says,  "  when  I  think  how 
frightened  I  was  about  you  and  Gerard.  Do  you  remember  my 
little  *  word  in  season  '?  I  suppose  I  shared  the  popular  impres- 
sion that  if  a  man  is  young  and  handsome,  and  has  charming 
manners,  he  is  dangerous  to  the  peace  of  mind  of  every  woman 
he  wishes  to  be  dangerous  to.  But,  solemnly,  you  are  the  first 
woman  with  whom  I  ever  knew  him  fail." 

And,  with  this,  Hermione  looks  smilingly  up  at  her  friend. 
She  sees  a  white  face,  a  quivering  lip,  and  humid  eyes,  and  the 
sight  gives  her  a  strange  shock.  A  sudden  suspicion  crosses  her 
brain.  She  looks  away,  and  goes  on  talking  quickly. 

4  *  One  has  such  ridiculous  ideas.  As  if  it  mattered  two  pins 
what  a  man  is  like!  I  wonder  whether  he  will  have  good  sport. 
Dear  me !  I  think  men  are  very  happy  to  have  so  much  freedom 
and  so  many  things  to  amuse  them.  I  wish  to  goodness  I  could 
go  away  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  hunt  or  shoot  wild  ani- 
mals, and  get  some  new  kind  of  excitement!" 

"  Yes,"  answers  Vanessa,  rousing  herself  to  speak  cheerfully, 
"  I  think  men  have  the  best  of  it." 

"Or  women  who  have  to  earn  their  own  living,"  suggests 
Hermione.  *•  We  idle  women  are  immensely  to  be  pitied.  And, 
sometimes,  when  I  am  driving,  I  see  poor  women  staring  at  1119 


144  J    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

with  envious  faces,  and  wondering  (I  can  read  in  their  eyes)  why 
life  should  be  so  unfair,  and  why  I  should  have  so  much,  and 
they  so  little.  They  wouldn't  believe  me  if  I  were  to  stop — as  I 
feel  inclined  to  sometimes — and  say.  *  You  think  I  am  happy. 
You  never  made  a  greater  mistake  in  your  life.  Of  the  two,"  I 
will  be  bound  to  say  you  are  a  great  deal  less  wretched  than  I 
am.'  They  don't  understand  the  doctrine  of  compensation;  I 
do." 

"I  suspect  one  is  very  ungrateful,"  says  Vanessa,  sighing. 
"  When  one  has  so  many  blessings,  one  ought  to  be  happy." 

"  And  so  we  would  if  we  could,  my  dear."  replies  Hermione. 
"  I  am  sure  no  one  is  voluntarily  unhappy.  Even  with  the 
people  who  are  most  unreasonably  discontented,  it  is  not  their 
fault.  They  have  livers,  or  something  wrong  with  their  inter- 
nal machinery." 

"  Your  carriage  is  here,  ma'am,"  announces  the  butler  at  this 
moment  to  Vanessa. 

"  Oh,  don't  go  yet!"  pleads  Hermione. 

"I  think  I  must,"  returns  Vanessa  rising.  "My  husband 
will  be  expecting  me." 

'•Oh,  these  devoted  wives!"  laughs  Mrs.  Fane;  but  after  Va- 
nessa is  gone  she  sits  ruminating  long  as  to  what  may  have  been 
the  interpretation  of  the  emotion  in  her  friend's  face,  when 
Ravenhold's  name  was  mentioned. 

All  that  evening  Vanessa  is  more  than  usually  affectionate 
and  caressing  to  her  husband.  He  smiles  at  her;  he  holds  her 
hand,  and  returns  her  kisses.  She  never  dreams  that  his  heart  is 
aching  ten  times  worse  than  hers;  and  that  he  is  saying  to 
himself: 

"  She  does  this  from  a  sense  of  duty.  She  has  been  talking  of 
Ravenhold  to  his  sister,  and  thinking  of  him,  and  she  looks  upon 
this  as  a  reparation  to  me  for  an  involuntary  wrong.  Poor 
child!  God  blesses  lier!  How  gladly  would  I  sacrifice  myself 
if  I  could  make  her  happy!" 

Brandon's  heart  bleeds  inwardly.  He  is  forever  thinking  of 
her,  and  imagining  her  sufferings  to  be  ten  times  greater  than 
they  are.  He  looks  forward  to  Ravenhold's  return  with  appre- 
hension; not  because  he  doubts  her  for  one  moment  in  his  loyal 
heart,  but  because  he  sees  that  it  will  be  an  ordeal  for  her,  and 
that  she  will  be  torn  in  two  between  love  and  duty.  And, 
though  he  loves  her  more  than  his  life,  if  he  could  set  her  free 
and  give  her  to  the  man  who  could  make  her  happier  than  he, 
he  would  do  it.  But  when  two  people  are  lawfully  chained  to- 
gether, the  rivet  can  only  be  broken  by  dishonor,  disgrace,  or 
death.  And  death  is  the  weapon  that  Fate  chooses  to  dissolve  a 
union  which  once  was,  and  which  promised  always  to  be,  as 
happy  as  any  she  ever  permitted. 

In  bitter  March  weather  Brandon  caught  cold,  and  treated  it 
in  the  way  in  which  many  strong  people  treat  a  cold,  as  a  disa- 
greeable but  by  no  means  dangerous  disorder.  He  went  about 
as  usual,  and  then  got  inflammation  of  the  lungs. 

Once  prostrate,  once  convinced  of  the  seriousness  of  his  state, 
be  made  up  his  mind  that  he  should  die.  Thsy  say,  when  that 


*     HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  145 

is  the  case,  a  man  generally  dies,  just  as  when  one  makes  up  his 
mind  that  he  will  live,  he  frequently  pulls  through.  Here  wits 
a  way  out  of  the  trouble  that  until  now  he  had  never  calculated 
upon.  Has  any  reader  ever  been  so  nigh  the  gates  of  death  aa 
to  look  it  full  in  the  face,  to  grasp  all  the  agony  of  parting  from 
what  he  loves,  of  seeing  his  own  vacant  place,  and  tcnowingtli&i 
those  who  stand  beside  him,  seemingly  broken-hearted,  will  ere 
long  be  laughing  again,  occupying  themselves  with  bue.in*v;s  or 
pleasure,  and  that  in  time  he  will  be  quite  forgotten  ?  Has  he 
suffered  a  yet  more  cruel  pang  ?  Has  he  seen  in  fancy  that  dear 
form  which  he  has  loved  better  than  his  own  soul  given  into  the 
arms  of  another — another  who  rejoices  whilst  he  lies  cold,  for- 
gotten in  his  narrow  grave?  If  he  has.  he  will  conjecture  some- 
thing of  the  pangs  that  rent  John  Brandon's  breast.  How  hnrd. 
poor  fellow,  he  tried  to  stifle  them! — how  nobly  and  generously 
he  tried  to  say,  "  O  God,  let  her  be  happy,  and  do  what  Thou 
wilt  with  me!"  His  affairs  were  all  in  order,  he  had  left  every- 
thing he  possessed  in  the  world  to  his  "  d°ar  wife;"  there  was  no 
selfish  clause  or  condition  attached.  Careful  beyond  all  things 
for  her  peace  of  mind  he  enforced  strictly  on  the  doctor  that 
Vanessa  should  not  be  allowed  to  suspect  his  danger. 

She  waited  on  him  like  an  angel  of  tenderness.  Now  Raven- 
hold  had  not  the  very  smallest  place  in  her  heart  or  thoughts — 
she  felt  nothing  Jbut  love  and  anxiety  for  the  man  who  had  been 
so  good  to  her,  and  to  whom  she  felt  herself  utterly  and  solely 
devoted. 

The  colonel  came  to  see  him,  and  tried  to  look  cheerful,  and 
to  speak  encouragingly,  but  men  are  poor  hands  at  dissembling 
by  a  sick-bed,  and  the  colonel  was  sure  he  read  death  in  Bran- 
don's face. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  said  the  latter,  as  they  were  alone 
together.  "Just  turn  the  key  in  the  lock,  that  we  may  not  be 
interrupted." 

The  colonel  obeys  him. 

"  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  talk  much,  my  dear  fellow,"  he 
says,  coming  back,  for  Brandon's  voice  is  weak. 

"I  won't  say  very  much,"  and  then  he  grasps  the  colonel's 
hand,  and,  for  a  moment,  emotion  chokes  him. 

"  Don't,  my  dear,  dear  old  chap,  agitate  yourself!"  implores 
the  colonel.  "  Wait  till  you  are  stronger." 

"  I  shall  never  be  stronger,"  answers  Brandon,  recovering  him* 
self  with  a  faint  smile.  "  I  am  dying." 

"  No,  no!"  cries  the  colonel,  with  a  sob  in  his  throat.  "  You 
must  not  say  that.  Think  of  your  poor  wife;  it  will  break  her 
heart." 

"  Yes.  She  will  feel  it  sadly,  poor  little  girl!  That  is  what  I 
want  to  say  to  you.  Do  all  you  can  to  comfort  her;  be  her 
friend-^be  as  much  as  you  can  with  her;  tell  her  how  I  loved 
her,  and  how  happy  she  made  my  life — how  I  valued  her  love! 
Tell  her  that  no  man  in  this  world  was  ever  so  happy  as  she 
made  me.  And  then  in  a  year  or  two — if  she  should  come  across 
some  good  fellow  who  you  think  would  make  her  happy  "  (and 
here  poor  Brandon  almost  breaks  down,  whilst  the  colonel  grasps 


146  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOV&D. 

his  hand,  and  gives  short,  gasping  sobs,  and  the  tears  rain  down 
his  face),  "  tell  her — tell  her  that  I  wished  it:  that  I  should  be 
happier  in  another  world  to  know  she  was  happy — and — God  In 
heaven  bless  her!" 

Then  Brandon  sank  back  on  his-  pillo\vs  almost  unconscious, 
And  the  colonel,  terrified,  thinking  the  end  was  near,  went  hur- 
riedly himself  to  fetch  the  doctor >  who  lived  close  by.  Luckily 
he  found  him  at  home. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  colonel,  with  a  white  face,  "  can  nothing  be 
done  ?  Must  he  die  ?" 

"  He  may  pull  through,  but  I  am  very  much  afraid,",  an- 
swered the  doctor. 

"What  will  his  poor  wife  do?"  ejaculated  the  kind-hearted 
colonel,  whose  heart  was  rent  in  twain. 

A  few  days  later  John  Brandon  died,  and  Vanessa  believed 
that  her  heart  was  broken.  She  passionateJy  desired  to  die.  How 
gladly,  she  thought,  would  she  take  that  last  long  journey  in 
company  with  the  man  who  had  been  all  the  world  to  her.  For 
the  memory  of  Ravenhold  was  swept  away  as  clean  as  though 
he  was  dead  or  she  had  never  known  him.  An  awful  deso- 
lation filled  her  heart,  she  forgot  the  disappointment,  the  un- 
satisfied longings  of  the  last  few  months;  her  memory  reverted 
to  the  time  when  they  two  had  been  all  and  all  to  each  other; 
she  only  thought  of  liim  as  the  man  who  had  filled  her  life  with 
love  and  happiness — the  man  without  whom  life  seemed  now 
impossible— a  burden  too  grievous  to  be  borne. 

The  colonel  telegraphed  at  once  for  Mr.  Went  worth,  and  he 
came,  but,  from  his  want  of  knowledge  of  Jie  world,  he  was 
neither  capable  of  attending  to  business  matters,  nor  could  he 
offer  his  daughter  (deeply  as  he  felt  for  her)  any  but  the  tritest 
consolations.  It  was  the  colonel  wrho  did  everything,  saw  to 
everything,  who  was  her  right  hand,  and  gave  her  the  only  faint 
gleam  of  comfort  which  she  knew. 

When  she  took  leave  of  him  to  go  home  to  the  Vicarage  with 
her  father,  as  it  had  been  arranged  she  should,  she  broke  into 
bitter  tears  and  sobs. 

"  What  shall  I  do  without  you?"  she  cried,  feeling  as  though 
the  last  link  between  her  and  happiness  was  snapped,  and  he 
pressed  her  hand  over  and  over  again,  and  the  tears  stood  in  his 
honest  eyes,  and  he  promised  to  go  down  and  see  her  ere  long. 

The  wretched,  desolate  weeks  dragged  their  slow  length  along. 
Vanessa  wondered  in  dumb  agony  how  a  human  heart  could  en- 
dure such  torture  and  still  live  on.  The  faithful  Susan  spent  all 
her  energies  in  trying  to  comfort  her  darling,  but  she  felt  that 
here  was  a  grief  beyond  her  humble  power  to  console. 

Every  hour  of  the  day  poor  Vanessa  said  to  herself ,  "This 
time  last  year  how  happy  I  was!"  and  she  magnified  all  her 
past  joys  and  pleasures  tenfold.  Now  she  looked  upon  her  life 
as  forever  done  and  ended — it  filled  her  with  a  cold  horror  to 
think  she  was  eo  young,  and  had  all  those  long  years  of  misery 
in  front  of  her.  If  a  thought  of  loving  or  marrying  again  had 
come  to  her,  she  would  have  cast  it  from  her  as  a  horrid  sacri- 
lege, but  in  truth  it  did  not  come,  at  all  events  for  weeks  and 


*/    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  147 

months  after  Brandon's  death.  The  first  gleam  of  happiness  she 
knew  was  when  Colonel  Dallas  paid  them  his  promised  visit. 
The  season  was  at  its  height,  but  London  seasons  had  no  verj 
great  charm  for  him  now,  and  he  was  glad  to  comfort  the  poor 
girl  for  whom  he  had  so  tender  and  chivalrous  an  affection.  H« 
stayed  a  month,  and  Vanessa  grew  almost  cheerful.  When  he 
left,  it  seemed  to  open  all  her  wounds  afresh.  I  am  disposed  to 
think,  if  he  had  proposed  to  marry  and  take  her  away,  she  would 
have  consented  from  sheer  loneliness  ^»nd  want  of  companion- 
ship. Then  came  three  months  of  intolerable  suffering — the 
months  in  which  she  had  first  lived  and  loved.  How  she 
yearned  and  ached  for  that  dear  heart  on  which  she  had  been 
wont  to  lay  her  head,  for  those  kind  sheltering  arms!  And  she 
was  here  alone,  widowed,  desolate. 

Mrs.  Vaughan  and  Edith  came  for  a  fortnight  to  the  Hall — 
Mabel  was  married.  It  was  a  break  in  Vanessa's  misery,  but 
when  Edith  went  away  again,  she  was  more  desolate  than  ever. 

Then  she  began  to  think  of  Ravenhold — to  wonder  bitterly  ii 
he  had  forgotten  her — if  he  had  only  been  playing  with  her 
heart— if  his  love  had  been  an  unworthy  one,  that  ceased  to 
exist  when  he  might  lawfully  cherish  it.  She  had  heard  from 
his  uncle  that  he  was  back  from  India,  but  he  macie  no  sign.  In. 
her  heart  she  drew  bitter  comparisons  between  him  and  her 
husband;  she  remembered  with  a  sense  of  burning  shame  that 
she  had  almost  forgotten  her  allegiance  to  a  man  who  was  so 
true  and  just  and  noble,  for  one  who  was  simply  heartless  and 
selfish,  and  bent  only  on  the  gratification  of  the  hour. 

When  the  colonel  came  on  a  second  visit  to  the  Vicarage,  he 
saw  that  Vanessa's  loneliness  was  telling  upon  her.  Change  she 
must  have — any  change.  He  talked  very  seriously  to  her  father, 
and  then,  as  a  first  little  break  in  the  monotony,  he  suggested  a 

fortnight's  visit  to  the  neighboring  seaport  town  of  B .     He 

went  with  them.  The  change,  the  sea  air  did  Vanessa  good,  and 
then  the  colonel  made  a  further  suggestion. 

"  My  dear  child,"  he  said,  "  you  cannot  go  on  leading  this  life; 
it  will  kill  you  in  time.  And  why  should  you  ?  You  are  a  com- 
paratively rich  woman;  there  is  your  house  in  town  waiting  for 
you.  Of  "course  you  could  not  have  remained  in  it  last  season, 
naturally  you  would  not  have  wished  to  do  so,  but  now  it  is 
different.  "  Make  up  your  mind  to  go  back  there  next  month,  and 
let  me  look  out  for  a  companion  for  you." 

Vanessa  shook  her  head  at  first;  she  could  never  return  to 
London  life,  nor  visit  nor  mix  with  people  again.  But  the  col- 
onel urged,  and  at  last  she  consented,  mostly,  I  think,  because 
she  hoped  to  see  more  of  him  by  doing  so. 

When  she  again  took  possession  of  her  home  it  seemed  to  bring 
back  all  her  grief  afresh.  Here  she  had  lived  and  been  happy 
with  Brandon  in  the  early  days  of  marriage,  when ,  at  least,  there 
had  been  no  disenchantment  or  disappointment.  And  now,  in- 
stead of  laying  her  head  on  that  dear  heart  and  twining  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  she  had  to  sit  exchanging  cold  platitudes  with  a 
dkwie  de  compagnie.  The  only  time  she  ever  felt  cheerful  wa» 
when  the  colonel  dined  with  her,  and  to  him  the  house  bagan  to 


ft 

148  J    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

I  <  a  sort  of  home.  She  liked  to  talk  about  Brandon,  and  the 
colonel  was  quite  content  to  listen  to  her  and  join  in  her  praises 
whilst  he  drank  his  dead  friend's  claret  and  smoked  his  fine 
cigars.  Nothing  less  than  the  best  of  everything  was  good 
enough  in  Vanessa's  eyes  to  give  to  any  one  she  cared  for.  That 
is  a  trait  almost  peculiar  to  the  sex.  There  are  a  good  many 
generous  men,  but  a  good  many  more  generous  women,  only  that 
it  rarely  happens  to  the  latter  to  hav,e  opportunities  for  the  dis- 
play of  this  virtue. 

Mrs.  Fane  came  to  see  Vanessa  once  as  she  passed  through 
London.  She  did  not  seem  to  Mrs.  Brandon  quite  the  same 
as  formerly.  Was  she  afraid  of  her  now  that  she  was  free, 
and  had  she  other  ideas  for  her  brother?  This  thought  stole 
involuntarily  into  Vanessa's  mind.  She  said  to  herself,  with 
some  scorn  against  herself,  that  there  seemed  little  ground  for 
any  fears  about  Lord  Ravenhold  thinking  of  her:  he  had  not 
called,  nor.  as  far  as  she  knew,  sent  even  an  ordinary  message 
of  condolence  to  her.  Hermione  had  not  mentioned  his  name. 
The  colonel  rarely  spoke  of  him,  and  something  in  Vanessa's 
own  consciousness  prevented  her  from  alluding  to  him.  She 
was  none  the  less  eager  to  have  news  of  him.  Frequently  a 
question  would  rise  to  her  lips,  and,  ere  they  framed  it,  she 
would  blush.,  her  heart  would  almost  chide  her,  and  the  fear  of 
betraying  herself  kept  her  silent.  But  at  last  one  evening,  as 
they  snt  together  over  the  fire,  the  companion  having  discreetly 
effaced  herself,  Vanessa  summoned  up  resolution  enough  to 
speak.  Ker  face  was  turned  to  the  fire;  she  held  a  feather  screen 
in  her  hand,  with  which,  if  needs  must,  she  could  hide  her 
blushes,  and  suddenly,  apropos  of  nothing,  she  said: 

4 '  Where  is  Lord  Ravenhold  now  T 

Even  as  she  spoke  she  had  a  shamed  consciousness  that  the 
colonel  would  suspect  the  instinct  that  prompted  her  question; 
would  guess  that  she  had  some  hope  or  thought  of  him. 

At  her  words  the  colonel  looked  into  the  fire  and  frowned  a 
Tittle. 

"  He  has  been  getting  himself  into  rather  a  nasty  scrape,  and 
he  is  keeping  quiet." 

44  Oh,"  and  Vanessa  tried  to  still  her  beating  heart,  and  to  look 
only  interested  as  a  friend  or  acquaintance  might. 

"  All  that  confounded  hereditary  complaint!"  pursued  the 
colonel.  "I  knew  it  would  get  him  into  trouble  one  of  these 
days." 

There  was  no  color  in  Vanessa's  cheek  no\» — an  icy  sensation 
crept  to  her  heart.  She  guessed  what  was  coming,  but  could 
not  command  her  voice  sufficiently  to  utter  a  single  word. 

*'  It  seems,"  the  colonel  went  on,  4*  that  he  met  a  woman  out 
in  India  and  fell  in  love  with  her.  And  they  came  home  to- 
gether in  the  same  boat.  Well,''  hesitating,  "  the  husband  only 
heard  about  it  a  month  ago,  and  he  has  instituted  proceedings 
in  the  divorce  court." 

"Oh!"  said  Vanessa,  in  a  voice  she  scarcely  recognized  as  her 
own.     "And  I  suppose  that — that  Lord  Ravenhold  will 
the  lad>  *' 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  113 

"  I  suppose  he  ought  to,"  replied  the  colonel,  rummaiavfly. 
"  But  whether  he  will  is  a  different  matter,  and  remains  to  L>3 
seen." 

Vanessa  sat  long  into  the  night,  when  every  one  else  was 
sleeping.  One  more  hope  died  with  bitter  pangs  and  throes. 

And  once  she  had  thought  the  world  fair,  and  that  there  was 
a  heaven  even  on  this  side  the  gates  of  death! 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

AT  the  Hall  there  is  one  of  those  charming,  old-fashioned 
kitchen-gardens  such  ~^  one  rarely  meets  nowadays.  It  is  in- 
closed by  brick  walls  with  eaves;  entered  by  a  pair  of  handsome 
iron  and  gilt  gates  set  in  square  stone  pillars,  surmounted  by 
huge  balls.  Looking  through  these  gates  you  can  see  a  broad 
green  walk  of  .beautifully  kept  turf,  bordered  on  either  side 
by  gorgeous,  flaming  masses  of  old-fashioned  flowers.  At  the 
end  of  the  green  vista  is  a  nut- walk,  dividing  the  vegetable  gar- 
den from  the  orchard,  and  beyond  this  a  labyrinth. 

Here  one  bright  June  afternoon  Vanessa  and  Edith  Vaughan 
are  wandering  together.  Vanessa  still  wears  deep  mourning, 
although  she  has  discarded  her  widow's  cap;  it  is  now  fifteen 
months  since  John  Brandon  died.  The  garden  has  become  a 
favorite  resort  of  the  two  friends — here  they  are  free  from  all 
probability  of  interruption,  and  can  indulge  their  sorrow  and  ex- 
change their  sympathy  unobserved.  Vanessa  lives  in  the  past — 
she  has  magnified  her  dead  husband  into  a  hero,  and  has  quite 
forgotten  that  she  was  ever  dull  and  disappointed  in  his  lifetime. 
Edith,  in  spite  of  mother  and  grandfather,  has  given  up  the 
world  and  society.  She  too  thinks  life  holds  nothing  more  for 
her — the  Algy  in  whom  she  trusted  so  profoundly  has  proved 
faithless  and  sold  himself  to  a  handsome  widow  with  a  consider- 
able fortune.  Edith  will  never  more,  she  vows,  believe  in  man's 
promises.  She  is  at  the  Hall  alone  with  her  maid  now,  but  Va- 
nessa bears  her  constant  company.  It  is  a  pathetic  sight  to  see 
these  two  young  creatures,  one  of  whom  is  positively  beautiful, 
and  the  other  pretty  enough  to  be  interesting,  leaning  upon  each 
other's  arms,  and  telling  each  other  beneath  the  blue  sky  and  in 
the  bright  sunshine  how  sad  a  place  God's  earth  is.  They  think 
so  most  sincerely,  and  speculate  mournfully  about  the  purpose 
of  their  creation  only  to  suffer  so  hapless  a  lot.  To-day  they  are 
saying  over  again  to  each  other  what  they  have  said  a  thousand 
times  before;  saying  it  with  as  much  earnestness,  as  much  in- 
terest, as  though  they  had  struck  out  a  new  line  of  thought. 

"  I  suppose  men  are  different  from  women,"  says  Edith,  with 
a  voice  full  of  bitter  yearning.  "  I  should  always  have  been 
faithful  to  him.  Did  I  not  go  through  all  sorts  of  persecution  for 
his  sake,  and  did  I  ever  waver  ?" 

"No,  my  poor  darling,"  utters  Vanessa,  tenderly.  "And 
when  he  talked  to  me  about  you,  he  seemed  so  intensely  da- 
voted,  I  could  not  have  believed  it  possible  for  him  to  change." 

"  I  could  almost  have  forgiven  him,"  murmurs  Edith,  with 


150  1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

fears  in  her  eyes,  "  if  lie  had  not  cared  for  her.  But  tneysay  he 
is  quite  in  love  with  her." 

"  He  was  not  worthy  of  you,''  says  Vanessa,  affectionately, 
"if  he  could  change  so  soon." 

"And  now,"  utters  Edith,  "  iny  life  is  done  and  over — I  have 
nothing  to  look  forward  to." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,  darling,"  entreats  Vanessa.  "  Someday 
rou  will  forget  him  and  care  for  some  one  better  worth  caring 
V>r.  You  are  not  so  desolate  as  I  am." 

•'  I  am  more  so,  because  I  have  lost  all  faith.  If  you  met  a 
man  you  could  love,  there  would  be  nothing  to  prevent  your 
marrying  him:  but  I  should  be  always  full  of  doubts.  I  could 
never  have  confidence  in  one  again," 

4 'My  love  is  buried  in  the  grave,"  says  Vanessa,  solemnly, 
looking  far  away  at  the  blue  sky,  whilst  two  big  tears  tremble  on 
her  eyelids. 

Silence  follows.  Presently  Edith,  turning  suddenly  on  her 
friend,  says: 

''Do  you  know,  Nessa,  I  have  always  been  expecting  that 
Lord  Ravenhold  would  come  back  and  marry  you. " 

A  flood  of  crimson  overspreads  Mrs.  Brandon's  face. 

"  Edie!"  she  cries,  almost  indignantly.  "  I  never  thought  to 
hear  this  from  you!" 

"  Don't  be  vexed,  darling!"  implores  her  friend.  "  It  has  been 
on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  a  thousand  times,  and  I  have  always 
stopped  myself.  Of  course  that  Indian  affair  was  very  wrong 
and  wicked,  but  I  know  he  was  dreadfully  in  love  with  you  the 
summer  before  last,  and,  of  course,  I  know  that  you  never  gave 
him  a  thought.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  fancied  ?  I  fancied 
that  lie  went  to  India,  because  he  was  unhappy  about  you 
and " 

"  It  looks  like  it,  does  it  not  T  echoes  Vanessa,  scornfully. 

"  I  dare  say  it  was  only  in  sheer  despair  about  you,"  aays 
Edith,  tentatively.  •*  Men  are  not  like  we  are — they  can  console 
themselves  with  another  woman  for  the  one  they  cannot 
have." 

"  Lord  Ravenhold  could  never  have  been  anything  to  me," 
answers  Vanessa,  coldly.  "  And  you  are  quite  mistaken  about 
his  caring  for  me.  I  should  think  you  must  be  convinced  of 
that  by  this  time." 

"No.  I  am  not,"  returns  Edith,  sturdily.  "I  can  imagine 
that,  after  that  miserable  esclandre,  he  was  ashamed  to  come 
near  you ;  but  if  he  had  cared  for  the  other  woman,  he  would 
have  married  her  after  the  divorce,  as  in  honor  he  was  almost 
bound  to  do." 

"Perhaps  he  has  married  her,"  says  Vanessa,  with  a  slightly 
heightened  color." 

"Oh,  no,  he  has  not.  I  suppose  you  heard  that  ridiculous 
story  which  was  got  up  about  his  going  through  the  ceremony 
with  her  and  leaving  her  at  the  churofh  door.  There  was  not 
one  word  of  truth  in  it.  He  has  been  out  of  England  for  the 
last  eight  months." 

44  Whmi  he  comes  back,"  says  Mrs.  Brandon,  countertejfcyig  a 


r   HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED-  151 

light  manner,  "  ho  will  find  a  bride  awaiting  him.  Now  that 
Lady  Mildred's  husband  has  broken  his  neck  so  conveniently, 
they  will  be  able  to  marry  and  be  happy  ever  after." 

Her  tone  betrays  her  to  Edith's  keen  ear.  She  is  certain  now 
of  what  she  suspected  before,  that  her  friend  is  not  so  entirely 
indifferent  to  Lord  Ravenhold  as  she  would  persuade  the  world, 
and  perhaps  herself. 

At  this  moment  an  incident  happens,  which  is  by  no  means  an 
uncommon  one,  although,  when  it  occurs,  it  seems  to  partake  a 
little  of  the  supernatural.  A  servant  comes  to  announce  to  Mies 
Vaughan  that  Lord  Ravenhold  is  in  the  drawing-room.  Edith 
receives  the  intelligence  with  perfect  calmness,  but  Mrs.  Bran- 
don changes  from  white  to  red,  trembles,  and  has  to  turn  away 
to  conceal  her  agitation. 

44  How  strange  that  we  should  just  have  been  talking  of  him!" 
remarks  Edith,  as  the  servant  departs.  "Come"' — rising — "let 
us  go  and  hear  what  he  has  to  say  for  himself." 

"I  will  stay  here."  answers  Vanessa. 

*'  Indeed  you  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  cries  Edith,  taking 
her  by  the  arm.  "  You  will  come  with  me  ?' 

"  No,"  answers  Vanessa,  with  resolution,  "  I  would  much  rather 
not." 

"  You  forget,"  exclaims  Edith,  half  smiling,  half  bitter,  "  that 
I  cannot  receive  a  young  man  unchaperoned.  It  would  not  be 
the  thing.  You  must  come  to  play  propriety." 

Vanessa  weavers  for  an  instant;  then  she  says,  with  ill-concealed 
agitation : 

"  Please,  Edie,  dou-t  press  me!  I  should  particularly  dislike 
to  meet  him." 

So  Edith  goes  away  alone  without  another  word,  and 
Vanessa  sits  trembling,  her  heart  throbbing  violently,  every 
nerve  quivering  anxiously  and  painfully,  her  hands  twisted,  and 
working  one  in  the  other.  But  she  is  quite  persuaded  still  that 
all  her  love,  all  her  power  of  feeling  it,  is  buried  in  Brandon's 
grave. 

Edith  finds  Lord  Ravenhold  looking  as  handsome,  as  debonair, 
as  fascinating  as  ever.  There  is  no  suspicion  of  the  humility  and 
shamefacedness  of  the  returned  prodigal  about  him;  he  does  not 
look  meek  and  penitent;  all  she  sees  in  his  expression  is  a  shade 
of  well-concealed;  disappointment  at  her  entrance  alone.  He 
greets  her  very  cheerily  all  the  same. 

"  I  heard  you  were  here,"  he  says,  "  and,  as  1  was  not  very  fai 
off.  I  rode  over." 

He  does  not  think  it  necessary  to  tell  her  what  brought  him 
into  the  neighborhood.  She  is  very  welcome  to  gueas. 

Of  course  she  replies  it  is  very  good  of  him  to  come.  She  is  so 
very  sorry  that  being  alone  here,  she  cannot  offer  him  any  hos- 
pitality. And  he  rejoins  that  he  only  rode  over  on  the  chance  of 
having  half  an  hour's  chat. 

"  It  must  be  awfully  dull  for  you,  here  all  alone,  is  it  not?"  he 
asks,  whereupon  Edith  answers  him  according  to  the  desire  ex- 
pressed in  hi*  eyes. 


152  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  dull,"  she  says;  "  Mrs.  Brandon  is  constantly 
with  me." 

Then  all  his  face  lights  up. 

**  I  called  at  the  Yi-.-?,ragu  on  my  way  hero,  and  they  told  me 
Mrs.  Brandon  was  with  you/' 

"  She  is  in  the  garden,"  answers  Edith.  "Shall  we  go  and 
find  her  Y' 

This  young  lady  perfectly  understands  that  Lord  Ravenhold 
has  come  for  the  express  purpose  of  meeting  Mrs.  Brandon. 
She  thinks  it  more  than  probable  that  he  is  here  with  the  inten- 
tion of  proposing,  or  leading  up  to  a  proposal  to  make  Vanessa 
Lady  Ravenhold,  and  she  considers  the  marriage,  in  spite  of  his 
lordship's  vagaries,  an  eminently  suitable  and  desirable  one. 

Ravenhold  starts  up  with  joyous  alacrity,  and  they  go  out  of 
the  French  windows  together,  and  take  their  way  to  the  old 
kitchen-garden.  But  when  they  arrive  at  the  spot  where  Edith 
left  Mrs.  Brandon,  the  bird  is  flown. 

Edith  -rands  still  and  looks  round,  in  the.  hope  of  catching 
sight  of  her  friend  walking  in  one  of  the  alleys. 

**  What  '••nn  have  become  of  her?"  she  utters,  in  a  vexed  tore, 
*•  1  left  her  here." 

Raveiihold's  face  falls;  a  sense  of  irritation  steals  across  him. 
The  past  comes  flying  back.  When  did  Mrs.  Brandon  ever  do 
anything  but  vex  and  thwart  him? 

The  gardens  at  the  hall  are  so  large  that  it  is  somewhat  of  a 
forlorn  quest  to  hunt  any  one  there  who  wishes  to  conceal  him- 
self, but  Edith  has  a  good  deal  of  resolution  in  Jaer  character. 
So  she  conducts  Ravenhold  to  such  places  as  she  thinks  it  pos- 
sible Yanessa  may  have  secreted  herself  in,  feeling  all  the  time 
anything  but  pleased  at  that  young  lady's  perversity,  and  HQ 
pathizirig  heartily  with  her  companion's  ill-disguised  disappoint- 
ment. Having  unsuccessfully  questioned  several  gardeners,  she 
comes  upon  one  who  is  able  to  give  tidings  of  the  fugitive.  He 
has  just  seen  Mrs.  Brandon  sitting  in  the  arbor  near  the  orna- 
mental water.  Unconsciously,  Ravenhold  quickens  his  pace  so 
much  that  Edith  can  scarcely  keep  up  with  him.  And  when  at 
last  he  comes  face  to  face  with  the  beautiful  and  adored  woman 
of  his  dreams,  his  eyes  light  up  with  a  look  of  such  joy  that  no 
one,  seeing  him,  could  entertain  a  moment's  doubt  about  his 
feelings  for  her.  Vanessa  blushes;  her  heart  beats  fast,  and 
then,  suddenly,  according  to  an  unaccountable  impulse  only 
known  to  her  sex,  she  freezes  herself  up  in  a  wall  of  ice,  and 
looks  at  and  behaves  to  Lord  Ravenhold  with  an  indifference 
which  would  be  somewhat  wanting  in  politeness  to  an  utter 
stranger.  If  he  addresses  her,  she  just  answers  him,  but  she 
leaves  the  brunt  of  the  conversation  to  her  friend,  who  is  hav- 
ing as  disagreeable  a  time  as  a  third  person  generally  does  when 
one,  at  least,  of  the  other  pair  is  a  lover. 

Miss  Vaughaii  racks  her  brain  for  an  excuse  to  leave  them, 
and,  seeing  a  gardener  at  a  little  distance,  is  about  to  interview 
him,  wLv_  Vanessa,  detecting  her  intention,  rises  also,  putting 
her  hand  th~"»n^h  Edith's  arm. 


/    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  153 

I  shall  not  be  a  moment,"  says  Edith,  innocently—"  I  want 
to  speak  to  Jenkins." 

4  My  dear,    returns  Vanessa,  calmly,  "  it  can  be  nothing  which 
will  not  keep  for  half  an  hour." 
Yes,  it  is,"  smiles  Edith. 

Then  we  will  come  too,"  replies  Vanessa,  proyokingly. 
'  But  it  is  a  secret/1  says  Edith. 

4  That  decides  the  matter,"  answers  Vanessa.  "  I  could  not 
th  nk  of  allowing  you  and  Jenkins  to  have  a  secret.  Could  I, 
Lord  Ravenhold  ?"  with  a  touch  of  the  old  malice. 

But  Ravenhold  is  too  piqued  and  angry  to  answer.  His  face 
wears  a  flush  of  anger;  he  bites  his  neither  lip,  and  viciously 
does  to  death  a  spider  with  his  riding-whip. 

So,  perforce,  Edith  remains,  and  tries  her  very  best  to  make 
conversation.  But  Mrs.  Brandon  does  not  second  her,  and  Lord 
Ravenhold  is  distinctly  sulky.  At  last,  in  sheer  despair,  he  rises 
to  take  his  leave.  But,  since  he  has  come  all  the  way  from 
London  to  see  this  perverse  beauty,  he  feels  it  impossible  to  go 
back  there  without  any  more  satisfaction  than  he  has  already 
got.  So,  holding  out  his  hand  in  farewell  to  her,  he  says,  in  a 
tone  half  wrathful,  half  pleading: 

May  I  call  upon  you  to-morrow  at  the  Vicarage  ?"  and  she 
answers,  calmly: 

"You  are  very  kind,  Lord  Ravenhold,  but  we  never  receive 
visitors  now." 

He  bows  stiffly.  The  little  mournful  emphasis  on  the  "  now  " 
exasperates  him  intensely.  It  says,  as  it  is  intended  to  say, 
'*  Now  that  I  have  lost  the  only  man  I  could  ever,  by  any  pos- 
sibility, have  cared  for."  He  stalks  away  toward  the  house  by 
Edith's  side  in  utter  silence,  and  she  feels  too  sorry  for  him  to 
attempt  anything  commonplace.  When  they  are  quite  out  of 
earshot  of  the  arbor,  he  stands  suddenly  still  and  looks  beseech- 
ingly at  her. 

" 1  know  you  are  sympathetic,"  he  says,  in  a  troubled  voice. 

I  am  awfully  distressed  at  the  way  in  which  Mrs.  Brandon  has 
received  me.  I  came  all  the  way  from,  town  to  see  her.  I  don't 
mind  telling  you.  I  must  speak  to  her.  I  suppose  she  thinks 
me  a  blackguard;  of  course  she  cannot  know  the  truth  of  that 
Wretched  miserable  story.  I  ought  not  even  to  allude  to  it  be- 
fore you,  but  forgive  me,  I  am  so  upset  and  unhappy!" 

And  he  takes  her  hand  and  gives  her  one  of  those  looks  which 
few  women  have  ever  been  able  to  withstand.  As,  moreover, 
the  woman  does  not  live  who  can  resist  an  appeal  for  sympathy 
from  a  very  handsome  young  man  whose  affections  she  does  not 
desire  personally  to  engage,  Edith  ranges  herself  instantly  on  his 
side,  and  says,  with  the  kindest  smile: 

"  Go  back  to  her  now." 

"  God  bless  you!"  utters  Ravenhold,  with  heartfelt  fervor;  and, 
needing  no  second  bidding,  he  retraces  his  eager  steps  with  a 
beating  heart  to  where  he  left  the  only  woman  who  exists  for 
fcixa. 

Vanessa,  meantime,  has  suffered  the  sharpest  pangs  of  re- 
morse. She  has  learned  in  those  few  moments  that  the  power 


154  I    HAVE    LIVED     AND    LOVED. 

of  loving  IB  not  dead  in  her  heart;  the  sight  of  RavenhoM  has 
stirred  a  strange  emotion  in  her,  and  now  she  feels  as  if  some  in- 
sane impulse  had  made  her  voluntarily  reject  the  greatest  bliss 
life  holds. 

For  all  that,  the  moment  his  eager,  winsome  face  appears  in 
the  doorway,  the  same  impulse  returns  with  tenfold  force,  and 
causes  her  to  greet  him  with  a  look  of  chill  surprise,  as  though 
he  were  an  unwelcome  intruder. 

He  breaks  at  once  into  his  confession,  unwarned  by  her  look 
and  manner. 

k- 1  have  come  all  this  way  to  see  you.  I  could  not  leave  you 
so,  and  go  away  wretched.  I  want  you,  at  teast,  to  know  the 
truth." 

"  Pray,  Lord  Ravenhold,  say  nothing  about  it."  answers  Va- 
nessa, in  a  voice  so  cold  that  she  scarcely  recognizes  it  as  her 
own.  ••  Your  affairs  can  have  no  possible  interest  for  me,  and  I 
scarcely  think  they  would  bear  discussing." 

He  stands  leaning  against  the  side  of  the  entrance,  liis  head 
thrown  back,  his  mouth  quivering  visibly  under  his  mustache; 
one  might  almost  fancy  a  suspicion  of  tears  in  his  handsome 
eyes. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  says  presently,  with  an  effort,  "it  is  always 
to  be  the  same.  You  never  had  a  kind  word  for  me  yet.  You 
never  did  anything  but  wound  and  hurt  me." 

"  I  think  you  are  a  little  unreasonable,"  returns  Vanessa, 
touched  but  unwilling  to  show  it.  "I  am  not  the  keeper  of 
your  conscience,  and,"  with  renewed  coldness,  "  there  are 
certain  subjects  which  I  think  you  know  I  never  cared  to  dis- 
cuss." 

"I  knew  you  were  always  very  pharisaical,"  answers  the 
young  man,  bitterly,  "and  never  made  allowances  for  any 
one.'" 

"Perhaps,  in  that  case,"  says  Vanessa,  piqued,  "you  had-- 
better  drop  the  subject." 

"  No,"  cries  Ravenhold,  passionately,  "  I  will  not.    "I  shall  tell; 
you  the  truth.     Why  do  you  always  stir  up  my  angry  feelings 
and  make  me  look  an  ill-tempered  brute  ?     Since  almost   the  : 
first  day  I  ever  knew  you  you  have  taken  a  delight  in  bringing 
out  the  worst  part  of  me:  only,  I  suppose,  to  show  your  power 
over  me." 

•'I  do  not  understand  you,  Lord  Ravenhold,"  says  Vanessa, 
rising  and  looking  angry  in  her  turn. 

He  takes  her  by  both  hands  in  spite  of  her  resistance.     There . 
is  a  masterful,  passionate  look  in  his  eyes,  which  half  daunts, 
half  pleases  this  capricious  young  lady. 

"  You  shall  understand  me  before  I  leave  this  spot,"  he  says. 
And  then  the  touch  of  her  hands,  which  he  still  holds,  eoftens •{ 
and  makes  him  humble. 

"  I  love  you  with  all  my  soul,"  he  says,  in  a  voice  full  of  emo- 
tion. 4'  If*  it  was  a  crime  to  tell  you  so  before,  it  is  not  one  now. 
Oh,  my  love,  I  love  you!" 

Vanessa  draws  her  hands  away. 

"  You  love  m«,"  she  utters,  scornfully.     "  Indeed,  I  feel  much 


1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  155 

flattered  by  coming  after  your  other  loves.  Such  loves!"— with 
bitter  emphasis. 

44  You  mean  that  miserable  Indian  affair."  he  cries.  "  I  do 
»ot  know  what  you  have  hear/1,  and  you  will  not  beliere  the 
truth  if  I  tell  it  you.  I  never,  never  " — vehemently — <4  cared  one 
lota  for  that  woman.  It  was  only  because  I  was  in  such  despair 
about  you  that  I  allowed  myself  to  be  dragged  into  it.  Of 
course  your  sex  never  will  understand  that  sort  of  thing;  that  a 
man,  out  of  sheer  wretchedness  about  one  wroman,  can  try  to 
get  comfort,  or  at  least  forgetfulness,  out  of  another." 

"  No,"  answers  Vanessa,  coldly,  "  I  do  not  think  a  woman  con 
Understand  that  sort  of  thing.  And  you  forget,  Lord  Ravenhold, 
that  you  are  insulting  me  by  professing  to  have  had  any  such 
feeling  for  me  whilst  my  dear,  dear  husband  was  alive." 

Ravenhold  turns  away  from  her,  and  stands  looking  at  the 
water  and. trees  beyond,  feeling  perhaps  more  bitterly  disap- 
pointed than  he  has  ever  done  in  his  life. 

"I  suppose,"  he  says,  after  a  long  pause,  "that  I  must  be  a 
most  egregious  ass.  You  always  hated  me.  I  ought  to  have 
.known  it,  if  I  had  not  willfully  shut  rny  eyes:  and  yet  I  have 
been  building  and  building  upon  the  thought  of  seeing  you 
again,  and— and  what  might  come  of  it — and  now — oh,  my  God! 
how  shall  I  bear  it  ?" 

His  breast  is  rent  by  a  bitter  groan;  he  hides  his  face  with  his 
arm.  Vanessa  sits  staring  at  him,  her  heart  beating,  her  red 
lips  half  parted.  Yet  she  does  not  speak.  Presently  he  turns, 
all  his  face  distorted  by  pain. 

"  Good-bye r  he  says,  in  a  husky,  indistinct  voice. 

And  he  holds  out  his  hand,  with  one  last  look  of  agonizing  ap- 
peal. 

"  Good-bye!"  utters  Vanessa,  quite  calmly. 

And  thus  he  goes. 

CHAPTER   XXVI. 

BITTER  indeed  at  heart  is  Ravenhold,  as  he  walks  across  the 
greensward  toward  the  house  to  take  leave  of  Edith  and  to  con- 
fess his  defeat.  He  scarcely  knew  before  how  much  he  had 
built  on  the  result  of  an  interview  with  Vanessa;  he  had  bided 
his  time  with,  for  him,  superhuman  patience,  until  a  more  than 
decent  interval  from  her  husband's  death  had  elapsed,  and  until 
that  other  wretched  affair  had  had  time  to  blow  over.  How  dis- 
proportionate are  rewards  to  punishments  in  this  world!  he 
thinks,  bitterly.  There  are  some  loves  for  which  the  world 
might  be  counted  well  lost;  loves  which  have  held  so  much  of 
delight  that  come,  what  will  afterward,  one  may  be  reconciled  to 
the  cost  of  the  joy  by  the  memory  of  its  rapture;  but  the  affair 
which  he  can  never  stigmatize  by  other  names  than  "  wretched," 
"miserable;"  into  w^hich  he  had  simply  allowed  himself  to  drift 
from  a  sort  of  weary  disappointment;  what  anguish  and  tor- 
ment it  had  cost  him!  It  had  dragged  his  name  through  the 
dirt;  it  had  exiled  him  for  months  from  his  own  country;  it  had 
Injured  him  ii*i  the  eyes  of  the  one  woman  with  whom  he  was 


1S6  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

madly  anxious  to  stand  well;  it  had  forever,  perhaps,  killed  his 
chances  of  happiness.  For  the  only  idea  of  happiness  that  pre- 
sented itself  to  his  mind  was  the  possession  of  Vanessa.  The, 
"  wretched  affair"  had  cost  him,  besides,  terrible  heart  burnings,'1 
for  though  he  was  indifferent,  the  other  factor  in  it  loved  him 
madly,  and  had  threatened  to  destroy  herself  if  he  refused  to  marry 
her,  and  he  had  halted  some  time  between  what  is  called  "a  sense 
of  honor ''  and  the  spoiling  of  his  life.  It  had  cost  him  a  great 
deal  of  money  as  well,  but  that  was  a  very  secondary  considera- 
tion, although  he  was  extravagant  and  not  very  rich — it  had  cost 
him  the  good  opinion  of  a  certain  section  of  society  which  is  ex- 
tremely ready  to  lay  down  the  law  about  what  other  people  ought 
to  do.  and  which  chose  to  say  he  had  behaved  badly  in  not 
marrying  the  unfortunate  woman.  The  same  set,  however, 
would  have  taken  very  good  care  to  show  the  "  unfortunate 
woman"  that  she  was  a  pariah  had  she  ventured  anywhere  near 
their  charmed  circle  even  as  Lady  Ravenhold. 

Edith  was  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  pretending  to  read.  She 
had  given  the  pair  an  hour,  perhaps  two  hours,  to  make  up  their 
differences,  and  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  could  be 
no  possible  objection  under  the  circumstances  to  asking  Lord 
Ravenhold  to  stay  and  dine.  Every  now  and  then  a  great  sigh^ 
heaved  her  breast;  she  felt  envious,  though  by  no  means  un- 
kindly envious,  of  their  happiness. 

She  was  startled  when  Ravenhold  walked  in  at  the  window 
alone,  and  with  an  expression  on  his  face  that  made  any  ques- 
tion needless. 

"  I  have  got  my  conge"  he  says,  "  so  I  had  better  go  at  once. 
May  I  order  my  horse  ?" 

Edith  rings  the  bell,  and  until  the  servant  has  come  and  de- 
parted neither  speaks.  Then  she  says  heartily: 

"  I  am  sorry." 

"Thanks,"  answers  the  young  man,  his  eyes  softening.  "  lrou 
have  been  very  good  and  kind.  You  have  done  all  you  could 
for  me." 

'*  Are  you  sure  it  is  hopeless?"  asks  Edith,  gently. 

'  *  Quite  sure.  I  was  a  fool  to  imagine  she  had  the  slightest 
thought  of  me.  She  does  not  care  two  straws  about  me — that  is 
perfectly  certain  now." 

"  Don't  you  think,  perhaps,  that  time " 

He  shakes  his  head  impatiently. 

"  I  believe  she  hates  me,"  he  says,  for,  to  a  lover,  there  is  noth- 
ing between  extremes. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  1  am  sure  she  does  not.  If  I  vvere  you  I  would 
not  despair." 

Then  Lord  Ravenhold's  horse  is  announced,  and  the  two  young 
people  lake  leave  very  kindly  of  each  other.  "Ravenhold  walks 
his  horse  all  the  way  aown  the  drive,  his  feelings  being  rather  of 
the  nature  of  a  dull  despair  than  of  the  passionate  disappoint- 
ment which  makes  a  man  want  to  ride  to  the  devil.  When  he  is 
nearing  the  lodge  gates  he  sees  a  tall,  graceful  figure  in  black 
ahead  of  him.  His  heart  beats  to  suffocation  as  Vanessa  turns 
and  oomes  toward  Jiim.  He  pulls  up,  and  is  out  of  his  saddle  in 


1   'HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  ytf 

second.  There  is  a  lovely  blush  on  her  face;  her  eyes  look  soft 
and  melting. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  was  unkind  to  you,"  she  murmurs. 

All  the  blood  rushes  madly  to  the  young  fellow's  head.  If  he 
had  not  his  bridle  in  his  hand,  if  there  were  not  two  children 

Slaying  at  the  lodge  gates  in  sight  of  them,  if,  oh,  cursed  word 
lat  prevents  and  limits  every  pleasure  the  world  holds!  how  he 
would  catch  his  darling  to  his  heart!  But  stay,  my  lord,  not 
too  fast!  As  soon  as  Mrs.  Brandon  observes  his  excitement  and 
the  threatenings  of  his  eyes,  she  retires  swiftly  into  her  shell 
again. 

"  Do  not  misunderstand  me!"  she  exclaims,  almost  before  he 
has  time  to  speak.  "  I  thought  I  had  been  unkind,  and  I  wanted 
to  say  I  was  sorry — that  is  all." 

He  is  not  to  be  daunted  so  soon  this  time. 

"  That  is  not  all!*'  he  says,  catching  her  hand  with  kindling 
eyes.  "  I  swear  it  shall  not  be  all!" 

"  Let  go  my  hand!"  says  Vanessa,  with  a  warning  glance  at 
the  infant  spectators. 

'•The  children  be — blessed!"  cries  his  lordship,  gayly.     "Let 
me  walk  with  you  to  tlfe  Vicarage — darling!" 
1  If  Vanessa  thinks  she  never  heard  that  charming  word  so  ten- 
derly or  delightfully  pronounced  before,  she  does  not  permit  her 
lover  to  read  her  thoughts. 

"  You  must  not  say  that,  Lord  Ravenhold,"  she  utters,  reprov- 
ingly. "And  I  am  going  back  to  Edith  at  once.  She  \\illbe 
looking  for  me. " 

"  You  shall  not  go,  I  swear!"  he  cried  passionately,  "  until  you 
have  given  me  some  little  gleam  of  hope." 

"  Hope  of  what?'  she  says,  innocently,  turning  her  wonderful 
eyes  upon  him. 

Again  the  horse  and  the  children  interfere  to  protect  Mrs. 
Brandon  from  Lord  Ravenhold's  inclination  to  demonstrative- 

3SS. 

"  You  know  quite  well,"  he  cries. 

But  Vanessa  only  says,  irrelevantly: 

"  I  must  be  going.  Good-bye.  Lord  Ravenhold,  you  hurt  me! 
Let  me  go,  I  desire!" 

The  last  in  quite  a  different  tone. 

"  I  wfll  not!"  he  replies,  very  resolutely,  the  color  and  passion 
rising  simultaneously  in  his  face, ' '  until  you  tell  me  when  I  may 
see  you  again.  May  I  come  to  the  Vicarage  to-morrow — to- 
morrow morning?" 

"But  you  have  seen  me  to-day,"  she  replies,  perversely.  "  I 
dare  say  we  shall  meet  in  London  in  the  autumn." 

"  By  the  autumn,"  he  says,  and  finishes  the  sentence  with  his 
eyes,  which,  from  the  swift  change  of  her  color,  it  would  seem 
Mrs.  Brandon  understands. 

"  Do  not  be  silly,"  she  murmurs.  '  And  now,  please  let  me 
go." 

"  Shall  I  come  to-morrow  ?"  he  asks  again. 
"  No— yes.     If  you  like." 


168  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

And.  having  regained  undivided  possession  of  her  hand,  she 
sets  her  face  toward  the  Ball. 

"  Good-bye." 

"Till  to-morrow,  my  sweet  love!"  he  utters,  joyously. 

He  stands  looking  after  her.  Once  site  turns,  smiles,  and 
makes  a  graceful  little  gesture  with  her  hand.  Then  he  mounts 
his  horse  and  rides  away  with  heaven  in  his  heart,  whilst  Va- 
nessa walks  with  winged  feet  toward  the  garden.  How  glad  she 
is  she  acted  on  that  impulse!  The  moment  he  left  her  in  the 
arbor  she  repented.  She  told  herself  that  this  time  he  had  ac- 
cepted his  dismissal;  that  in  all  probability  she  would  never  see 
him  again.  She  had  thrown  away  the  chance  of  immense  hap- 
piness, had  wantonly  condemned  herself  to  a  lonely  loveless  life 
—had  sent  him  away,  doubtless,  to  Lady  Mildred. 

The  last  thought  broke  down  her  pride,  and  she  went  swiftly 
out  of  a  side  door  in  the*  garden  toward  the  drive,  where  shej 
must  intercept  him   if  she  were   in  time.     And   if,  instead  o9 
walking  his  horse  moodily  along.  Lord  Raven  hold  had  put  hinj 
to  a  trot,  most  unquestionably  Vanessa  would  have  been  tool 
late,  and,  it  is  more  than  possible,  would  never  have  had  another! 
chance  of  making  her  amende.     A  minute  sooner  or  later,  a| 
seemingly  accidental  meeting,  some  trifling  incident,  and  the! 
whole  course  of  our  lives  is  changed.     Truly  the  dice  of  Fate  are 
loaded  with  trifles. 

When  Vanessa  leaves  Lord  Ravenhold,  she  betakes  herself 
back  to  the  gardens,  and  meets  Edith,  who  is  looking  for  her, 
quite  innocently,  and  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  Edith 
is  highly  displeased  with  her,  and  makes  no  secret  of  her  indigi 
nation. 

"  Really,  Vanessa,  I  have  no  patience  with  you.     You  are  i 
provoking!" 

"  How  ?"  asks  Mrs.   Brandon,   demurely.       "  What  have 
done  ?" 

"  You  have  sent  that  poor  boy  away  wretched.     He  came  al| 
the  way  from  London  to  see  you,  and  then  you  treat  him  in  th 
shameful  and  cruel  manner." 

"  It  will  do  him  good,"  observes  Vanessa,  unfeelingly.     •• 
think  it  is  quite  wrong  for  every  one  to  receive  returned  prodi-j 
gals  with  open  arms  as  though  they  were  heroes." 

"  You  have  sent  him  away  heart-broken!"  exclaims  Edith 
"  I  dare  say  he  will  do  something  desperate." 

"  Oh,  no,  my  love,"  returns  Vanessa,  lightly — "men  don't  < 
desperate  things  for  love  in  these  days.     He  will  drink  a  glass  < 
two  more  wine  for  dinner,  smoke  an  extra  dozen  cigarettes,  an<j 
will  feel  quite  happy  and  comfortable  afterward." 

"I  could  never  have  believed  you  were  so  heartless,"  say 
Edith,  more  angry  than  ever.     "  And  I  think  you  owe  him  son 
thing  when  you  were  the  cause  of  his  getting  into  that  wretche 
entanglement.     He  told  me  so." 

1 '  It  is  very  easy  for  him  to  say  so,  isn't  it  ?"  says  Vane 
"  On  the  principle  that  '  a  bad  excuse  is  better  than  none,'  1 1 
pose  ?" 

Why  Mrs.  Brandon  should  behave  with  this  duplicity  I  am  i 


7    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  159 

able  to  conjecture,  but  she  is  quite  succesiful  in  misleading  her 
friend. 

"  I  have  no  patience  with  you!"  cries  Edith,  angrily;  "  I  don't 
understand  you  in  the  very  least.  You  complain  of  being  lonely 
and  wretched,  of  your  life  being  over,  and  here  you  get  a  chance 
of  a  happy  and  brilliant  future,  and  you  toss  it  away  as  if  there 
were  fifty  better  ones  waiting  for  you.  What  on  earth  would 
you  have  ?  A  man  who  adores  you,  who  is  as  handsome  and 
charming  as  a  man  can  be,  who  has  everything  else  to  recom- 
mend him,  and  you  treat  him  with  as  much  contempt  as  if  you 
were  a  grand  duchess  and  he  were " 

Here  Edith  pauses,  unable  to  find  a  suitable  simile. 

"  It  will  do  him  good,"  says  Vanessa  again,  in  the  same  heart- 
less, flippant  manner. 

"  It  will  most  likely  send  him  off  to  Lady  Mildred,"  returns 
Edith.  "  There  will  be  no  question  as  to  how  she  will  receive 
him/' 

Vanessa  smiles  in  a  manner  which  provokes  her  friend  inex- 
pressibly. Edith's  last  remark  has  pleased  her  extremely,  by 
convincing  her  how  wise  she  has  been  in  not  letting  Ravenhold 
go  away  in  despair.  She  is  so  cheerful  arid  bright  in  her  man- 
ner all  the  evening  that  Edith  is  goaded  into  saying: 

"  After  all,  women  are  quite  as  heartless  as  men!     Indeed, 
hardly  think  any  man  would  gloat  over  the  idea  of  having  made 
a  woman  thoroughly  wretched  and  unhappy." 

*'  Is  that  meant  for  me  V"  asks  Vanessa,  smiling.  "  My  dear 
child,  I  would  stake  everything  I  possess  that  at  this  moment 
Lord  Ravenhold  is  not  the  least  bit  unhappy." 

"  I  don't  love  you, "says  Edith,  as  she  bids  Mrs.  Brandon  good- 
night. **  I  am  disappointed  in  you.  No!  I  don't  want  to  kiss 
you." 

'*  Yes,  you  do,"  returns  Vanessa,  sweetly,  embracing  her.  '*  It 
is  you  who  are  unreasonable,  and  I  who  am  consistent.  You 
know  all  that  you  have  said  about  placing  confidence  in  men, 
and  yet  the  first  one  who  comes,  just  because  "  (with  feigned 
contempt)  •*  he  is  handsome  and  has  pretty  manners,  you  range 
yourself  on  kis  side,  and  are  ready  to  quarrel  with  me  for  not 
rushing  into  his  arms." 

"  There  is  a  difference  between  rushing  into  his  arms  and 
treating  him  in  the  shameful  manner  you  did  to-day,"  remarks 
Edith.  "  And  I  think  they  would  be  very  nice  arms  to  rush 
into." 

"  Do  you  ?"  says  Vanessa,  with  a  false  and  wicked  little  gesture 
of  distaste. 

"Good-bye,"  utters  Edith,  in  a  melancholy  tone.  "You  do 
not  deserve"  to  be  happy.  And  some  day  you  will  be  very  sorry 
for  this." 

"  Shall  I  ?"  asks  Vanessa,  still  in  the  same  smiling,  flighty  mood 
which  displeases  her  friend.  "  We  shall  see." 

But  when  she  is  alone  in  her  room  at  the  Vicarage  the  smile 
leaves  her  mouth,  and  she  looks  intensely  serious.  Her  heart 
beats  fast;  a  sense  of  rapture  at  the  thought  of  the  future  steals 
over  her.  but,  mingling  with  it,  is  a  feeling  of  remorse.  Is  this  her 


160  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED^ 

promised  devotion  to  the  memory  of  her  dead  husband  ?  How 
dare  she  think  of  love,  and  passion,  and  a  ne\v  life  whilst  he  is 
lying  cold  and  lonely  in  his  narrow  grave?  But  love  of  the 
living  is  a  stronger  motive  power  than  fealty  to  the  dead,  and 
Vanessa's  first  thought  on  waking  in  the  morning  is  one  of 
delight  that  Ravenhold  is  coming  to  her  to-day.  She  is  un- 
usually careful  over  her  toilet.  She  fastens  a  blush-rose  in  her 
bosom;  she  puts  on  her  smallest  and  newest  shoes.  She  is  al- 
most shocked  to  catch  herself  humming  a  waltz  tune  whilst  she 
dresses. 

Somehow,  this  morning  she  finds  it  impossible  to  settle  to  any- 
thing. Her  nerves  are  in  a  state  of  the  highest  irritability;  she 
starts  at  every  sound:  she  cannot  work,  or  read,  or  play.  She 
sits  for  ten  minutes  in  the  rose-bower,  and  returns  to  the  house 
thinking  she  has  been  there  at  least  an  hour.  She  wanders  up 
and  down,  rearranges  every  flower  in  the  big  china  bowl,  eyes 
herself  in  the  old-fashioned  mirror,  glances  out  of  the  window, 
takes  countless  looks  at  the  chiming  clock.  When  at  last  she 
hears  the  loud  summons  of  the  bell,  her  heart  beats  to  suffocation; 
the  crimson  blood  rushes  mantling  to  her  cheeks.  For  all  that, 
when  Lord  Ravenhold  is  ushered  in  by  the  shrewdly  smiling  Susan, 
who  is  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  way  in  which  she  has  my-lorded 
the  visitor  to-day,  he  finds  Mrs.  Brandon  calmly  engaged  upon  a 
piece  of  needlework,  as  though  she  had  been  placidly  sitting  there 
for  the  last  hour! 

His  face  is  flushed,  eager,  joyful;  he  scarcely  waits  for  the 
door  to  close  behind  him  when  he  utters  a  word  of  strong  en- 
dearment, and  possesses  himself  of  both  Vanessa's  hands. 

"  No,  no,  Lord  Ravenhold,  indeed  you  must  not!"  utters  that 
lady,  trying,  not  very  successfully,  to  look  dignified  and  dis- 
pleased. 

He  draws  a  low  chair  in  front  of  her,  for,  to  get  near  her,  he 
must  either  kneel  or  sit,  and  wooing  kneeling  is  quite  an  ex- 
ploded fashion. 

"Do  not  let  us  have  any  more  misunderstandings!"  he  says, 
impetuously,  devouring  her  with  his  eyes.  "  Now  that  we  are 
young,  that  all  is  smooth  before  us,  let  us  be  happy.' 

His  tone  sinks  to  entreaty;  he  has  taken  one  of  her  hands;  his 
eyes  speak  volumes. 

The  words  are  infinitely  pleasing  to  her,  but  with  the  intuitive 
conviction  of  those  of  her  sex  who  know  mankind  that  it  is  a 
fatal  error  to  yield  too  easily  to  their  blandishments,  she  tries  to 
withdraw  her  hand,  and  says: 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  be  your  friend.  You  must  not  ex- 
pect anything  more  of  me." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  cries,  raising  his  voice  again,  "  that 
you  do  not,  that  you  will  not  care  for  me  ?" 

"I  could  not  care  for  any  one,"  she  answers,  turning  her  eyes 
away,  but  acutely  conscious  of  the  absurdity  and  hypocrisy  of 
her  words. 

Apparently  Ravenhold's  keen  eyes  pierce  through  the  pre- 
tended mask. 

44  Could  you  not?"  he  says,  in  an  exultant,  masterful  voice. 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  161 

"  But  I  swear  you  shall!"  And  with  that,  he  flings  both  arma 
round  her,  whether  she  will  or  not,  and  presses  his  eager  lips  to 
hers. 

Perhaps  she  is  stunned  by  his  violence ;  perhaps  she  is  of  those 
to  whom  a  bold  wooer  is  not  displeasing;  perhaps  she  thinks 
that  moments  of  rapture  are  not  so  common  as  to  be  allowed  to 
go  a-begging;  at  all  events,  for  some  ten  seconds  she  makes  no 
resistance,  but  yields  herself  to  the  inevitable. 

But  then,  naturally  and  of  course,  she  pretends  to  be  offended, 
and  insists  upon  tearing  herself  from  the  arms  which  seem  as  if 
they  would  never  willingly  release  her  again. 

"  Let  me  go,  Lord  Ravenhold.  You  hurt  me!  I  am  very 
angry.  I  do  not  like  you." 

He  smiles;  he  does  not  care,  he  does  not  believe  her;  he  is 
wildly  triumphant,  madly  happy. 

"  Do  not  be  angry,"  he  says,  caressingly.  "  Why  should  you? 
How  can  I  help  it  ?  I  only  wonder  how  I  kept  my  hands  off  you 
before." 

"  Do  not  talk  like  that!"  she  exclaims,  puckering  her  pretty, 
smooth  brow.  "  It  is  wrong  and  it  is  silly." 

He  is  not  to  be  abashed. 

"  Everything  nice  is  wrong,  most  things  at  least,  and  if  it  is 
silly,  I  should  like  to  go  on  being  a  fool  forever." 

Vanessa  smiles,  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  You  are  just  like  a  great  spoilt  child,"  she  says. 

With  this  he  grows  quite  serious. 

"  Do  not  let  us  jest,"  he  says,  again  taking  her  hand;  "right 
or  wrong,  I  have  worshiped  you  ever  since  I  first  set  eyes  on 
you." 

"No,  you  have  not,"  interrupts  Vanessa.  "When  you  first 
knew  me,  you  worshiped  Lady  Mildred." 

"  Lady  Mildred!"  he  repeats,  with  impatient  distaste. 

"  Yes,  it  is  quite  true.  You  know  it,"  replies  Vanessa.  "  And 
now  she  is  free,"  adds  the  young  lady,  cruelly. 

His  eyes  takes  an  expression  of  such  deep  reproach  that  she 
ought  to  feel  penitent.  But  she  does  not. 

**  Do  not  let  us  waste  time  and  words  on  her,"  he  says.  "  If  I 
cared  for  her  once,  you  know  well  enough  that  it  is  long  since 
over." 

"  You  have  cared  for  so  many  people  since,"  remarks  Vanessa, 
unkindly. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  twit  me  with  that  miserable  affair  in  India?" 
cries  Ravenhold,  passionately.  "  For  Heaven's  sake  let  me  tell 
you  the  whole  story,  and  then " 

"  No,  no,"  interrupts  Vanessa.     "  I  do  not  want  to  hear  it." 

But  he  insists.  It  is  not  altogether  an  easy  story  to  tell,  be- 
cause, although  his  object  is  to  prove  his  own  utter  blameless- 
ness  to  his  mistress,  the  code  of  honor  (poor  enough,  Heaven 
knows,  though  it  is)  of  our  day  prevents  a  man  shifting  the 
fault  so  entirely  and  frankly  on  the  woman  as  his  first  progeni- 
tor did. 

When,  however,  a  woman  desires  to  condone  and  forgive,  she 
is  not  prone  to  look  very  critically  into  the  story  it  pleases  her 


162  T^HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

lover  to  tell  her.  Vanessa,  therefore,  affects  to  accept  and  to  be 
satisfied  with  his  explanation.  He  clearly  demonstrates  that 
love,  not  forgetfulness  of  her,  was  the  cause  of  this  lapse  in 
his  morals,  and  that  what  he  had  sought  as  an  anodyne  had 
proved  a  bitter  and  nauseous  drug.  And  although  Vanessa  pos- 
itively forbids  him  to  allude  to  his  sentiments  at  a  time  when 
Bhe  considers  them  to  have  been  dishonoring  to  her,  he  only  re- 
plies sturdly: 

"  It  is  God's  truth!  I  worshiped  you  then,  right  or  wrong,  as 
I  do  now.  Who  could  be  with  you  and  not  adore  you  ?''  And 
then  Ravenhold  conies  to  the  point  about  which  he  is  so  eager. 
When  will  she  make  him  happy  ? 

But  Vanessa  is  obstinately  coy;  she  will  not  entertain  the  idea 
of  marriage — no,  not  for  ages,  not  for  two  years — certainly  not 
for  a  year  at  the  very  earliest.  It  would  be  an  indecency— it 
would  be  a  slight  to  the  memory  of  the  man  who  had  been  so 
good  to  her;  to  whom  she  had  been  so  devoted. 

Vainly  Ravenhold  tries  to  shake  her  resolution  by  the  tender- 
est,  most  urgent  entreaties — she  is  inflexible.  Then,  suddenly, 
with  a  passionate  gesture,  he  pushes  back  his  chair,  strides  to 
the  end  of  the  room,  and,  returning,  confronts  her  with  a  white 
face. 

"  It  is  the  old  story,''  he  says,  in  a  hard,  rough  voice.  "  From 
the  first  moment  I  knew  you  it  has  always  been  your  pleasure  to 
vex  and  thwart  and  try  me.  I  tell  you  frankly,"  I  cannot,  I  will 
not  wait  a  year  for  you — I  should  be  in  my  grave.  So  if  you  in- 
eist,  I  will  go  away  and  try  to  forget  you.  Oh,  love!"  he  cries, 
his  voice  suddenly  changing  to  extreme  tenderness  as  he  bends 
over  her.  "where  is  your  heart?  Why  will  you  fling  away 
happiness  ?  Who  knows  what  may  happen  in  a  year  ?  Now  we 
are  both  in  the  zenith  of  our  youth  and  life,  we  have  all  the 
divine  summer  before  us,  and  there  is  nothing  but  your  perverse 
will  to  prevent  our  being  the  two  happiest  creatures  on  God's 
earth.'' 

And  Vanessa,  seeing  that  he  is  so  mightily  in  earnest,  allows 
her  scruples  to  be  vanquished. 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

ONE  cannot  live  in  the  world  and  remain  unconscious  that 
there  is  a  vast  amount  of  sorrow,  suffering,  misery,  and  disap- 
pointment in  it,  that  great  happiness  is  very  rare,  and  lasting 
happiness  impossible.  But  once  now  and  again  poor  mortals  are 
allowed  a  foretaste  of  what  heaven  may  be,  of  what,  could  they 
but  know  certainly  it  would  be,  they  would  willingly  undergo 
any  pangs,  privations,  sufferings  here  to  win. 

To  Ravenhold  and  Vanessa  a  season  of  perfect  happiness  was 
allowed — they  were  like  Adam  and  Eve  in  paradise,  for  their  se- 
clusion was  almost  as  great,  and  there  was  no  serpent.  Raven- 
hold  did  not  grow  angry  or  petulant  or  quarrelsome,  and  Vanessa 
was  so  supremely  happy  that,  once  and  again,  a  vague  terror 
crept  over  her  that  in  this  world  such  bliss  must  be  balanced  by 
some  equal  anguish.  Her  heart,  in  its  full  satisfaction,  has  for- 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  163 

gotten  its  hunger— sne  would  fain  live  on  here  for  ever  with  her 
love.  He,  restless  and  manlike,  happy  though  lie  is,  would  yet 
have  the  time  speed  on,  whilst  Vanessa  would  hang  weights  on 
the  sweet  minutes  to  make  them  lag.  She  knows  full  well  that 
the  golden  hour  for  women  is  the  hour  of  courtship. 

Their  love  seems  to  defy  satiety — they  cannot  have  enough  of 
each  other — the  long  sunny  days  are  all  too  short;  the  few  night 
hours  between  parting  and  meeting  all  too  long.  They  wander 
out  in  the  moonlight,  she  bids  him  farewell  a  thousand  times, 
and  yet  he  returns  for  a  last  embrace  -  his  enraptured  eyes  can- 
not gaze  long  enough,  ardently  enough  upon  her  beauty.  She 
is  the  very  fairest  woman  "upon  earth  to  him,  and,  if  her  appre 
ciation  of  his  good  looks  is,  in  the  nature  of  things,  less  keen, 
she  finds  him  a  most  gracious  and  comely  target  for  her  lovely 
eyes. 

Ravenhold  has  sent  for  his  phaeton,  and  they  take  long  drives 
together.  One  day  he  turns  his  horses"  heads  in  the  direction  of 
the  wood  where  the  Hall  party  picnicked  on  the  day  when  he  fell 
into  such  dire  disgrace  by  his  unbecoming  declaration.  He  tells 
his  groom  to  put  up  for  an  hour,  and  he  and  Vanessa  stroll  away 
into  the  wood.  She  has  a  sort  of  intuition  of  his  intention,  tout 
does  not  seek  to  oppose  him;  does  not  even  affect  to  be  aware  of 
his  design  He  puts  her  hand  through  his  arm  and  leads  her 
straight  to  the  rudely -cut  bench  beneath  the  beech-tree,  and, 
when  they  reach  it,  he  takes  her  suddenly  in  his  arms  and  cries, 
in  an  exultant  voice: 

"  Thank  God !" 

The  eyes  with  which  he  looks  at  his  love  are  full  of  fire  and 
tenderness. 

"  And  the  last  time  I  was  here,"  he  says,  "  I  was  so  miserable 
I  could  have  hanged  myself.  Oh!  if  I  could  have  dreamed  that 
this  joyful  day  would  ever  come!  Then  I  thought  the  world  a 
place  too  wretched  to  live  in — I  scarcely  believed  in  God;  but 
now,"  fervently  raising  his  eyes  through  the  canopy  of  leaves  to 
the  blue  heavens,  ''I  thank  Him  every  day  and  night  of  my 
life. " 

A  tender,  happy  little  smile  parts  Vanessa's  lips. 

"  And  I  too,  love,"  she  whispers. 

It  is  considerably  more  than  an  hour  before  they  return  to  the 
phaeton.  The  horses  are  stamping  and  chafing,  worried  to  death 
by  flies,  the  pest  which  robs  the  country  of  half  its  pleasure. 

The  vicar,  when  he  has  time  to  tear  his  thoughts  for  an  in- 
stant from  his  book,  is  pleased  with  the  idea  of  his  daughter's  re- 
marriage; as  for  Susan,  she  is  as  delighted  as  though  she  had 
found  an  eligible  husband  for  herself. 

"Now  this,"  she  said  confidentially  to  Mary  Ann,  "  is  just 
what  should  be.  Though,  poor,  dear  gentleman,  a  kinder  and 
a  better  husband  never  lived  than  Mr.  Brandon,  and  far  be  it 
from  me  to  say  a  word  to  the  contrary,  but  his  lordship,  now, 
he  is  just  as  if  he  was  cut  out  for  my  dear  young  lady.  Depend 
on  it,  Mary  Ann,  the  Almighty  ordained  it  from  the  fust." 

"  Well,  they  make  a  beautiful  couple  as  any  one  could  see 
in  a  day's  journey,"  assents  Mary  Ann,  cordially.  _"  You  can't 


164  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

lx>  more  pleased  than  me,  my  dear.  I  wonder  what  the  squire'li 
say  ?" 

"  What  business  has  he  thinkin'  of  young  ladies  at  all  ?"  cries 
Susan.  "  Better  for  him  to  be  savin'  his  prayers,  and  mindin1 
of  his  soul." 

"  Not  much  of  that,  I  don't  think,"  rejoins  Mary  Ann,  shaking 
her  head. 

Ravenhold.  on  his  part,  is  delighted  with  Susan,  and  pays  her 
frequent  visits  in  the  kitchen  or  the  "  keeping-room."  He 
generally  sits  on  the  table,  with  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth,  having 
first  asked  her  permission  to  smoke,  and  there  he  stays  and 
talks  by  the  half  hour  together.  There  is  not  much  variety  about 
his  theme,  but  it  is  one  that  interests  Susan  as  much  as  himself. 

"Isn't  she  lovely,  Susan  ?"  he  asks  for  the  thousandth  time, 
and  Susan  replies,  with  the  modesty  befitting  ownership: 

"  /  think  so,  my  lord." 

"  She  is  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  whole  world!"  de- 
clares Ravenhold,  with  "emphasis.  "  You  never  saw  any  one 
like  her,  Susan,  did  you  V" 

"  That  I  never  did,  my  lord,"  returns  Susan,  with  equal  de- 
cision. "  But  then,  I've  never  been  to  London,  nor  seen  manj 
ladies  at  all." 

"  Well,  I  have,"  says  Ravenhold;  "and  I  give  you  my  word 
of  honor  that  never  in  Europe,  Asia,  Africa,  or  America," where 
the  best- looking  women  generally  grow,  have  I  seen  any  one  to 
touch  her!" 

•  You  don't  say  so,  my  lord!"  exclaims  Susan,  with  glistening 
eyes,  as  though  this  were  the  first  time  she  had  heard  him  make 
the  startling  assertion. 

"The  professional  beauties  are  not  a  patch  upon  her,"  re- 
marks Ravenhold,  and  then  he  sits  placidly  silent  for  a  few 
moments,  blowing  rings  of  smoke  through  each  other. 

"  Susan,"  he  observes,  presently,  "  you  will  have  to  come  and 
stay  with  us.  and  see  your  young  lady  dressed  to  go  to  Court, 
You  mark  my  words,  she  will  be  the  loveliest  woman  there. 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  the  queen  kiss  her  ?" 

"  Lor',  my  lord!"  cries  Susan,  getting  quite  red  at  the  thought 
of  such  a  stupendous  honor.  "  Will  her  most  gracious  majesty 
really  kiss  Miss  Nessa  ?" 

"  No,"  answers  Ravenhold,  smiling,  and  giving  the  old  lady  a 
friendly  pat  on  the  back.  "  She  won't  kiss  Miss  Nessa,  but  she 
will  kiss  Lady  Ravenhold." 

"I  beg  your  lordship's  pardon,  I'm  sure,"  says  Susan,  quite 
flustered. 

"  No  occasion,"  laughs  Ravenhold;  then,  thoughtfully,  with  a 
slight  frown,  ' '  I  wish  she  was  Miss  Nessa.  It  seems  rather  mean 
to  be  jealous  of -a  poor  chap  who's  dead:  but  you  know,  Susan, 
I  hate  to  think  of  her  having  had  a  husband." 

"  But,  my  lord,"  rejoins  Susan,  anxious  to  console  her  favorite, 
&s  well  as  to  take  anything  off  her  young  lady  that  seems  a 
blemish  in  his  eyes,  "  perhaps  if  she  hadn't  have  married  poor 
Mr.  Brandon^  yo.u  would  never  have  seen  her  " 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  135 

"  There's  something  in  that,"  returns  Ravenhold,  more  cheer- 
fully. 

Mrs.  Fane  wrote  a  charming  and  affectionate  letter  to  Vanessa, 
expressing  the  greatest  satisfaction  with  the  marriage.  And  in- 
deed she  was  not  ill  pleased;  for,  though  she  said  to  herself  that 
her  brother  might  well  have  looked  for  a  more  distinguished 
alliance,  there  was  cause  for  devout  thankfulness  that  he  had  not 
married  that  dreadful  woman  who  had  got  him  into  such  a 
wretched  entanglement.  And  Vanessa's  two  thousand  a  year 
would  be  useful,  as  Gerard  was  not  rich  for  his  position.  Lady 
Mildred  was  too  old  for  him,  and  had  a  dreadful  temper — they 
would  have  been  sure  to  quarrel. 

Edith  Vaughan  was  rejoiced  at  the  marriage,  and  tried  hard, 
poor  girl,  to  stifle  the  acute  pangs  of  jealousy  which  would  some- 
times creep  into  her  heart  at  the  sight  of  so  much  bliss.  Sir 
Bertram,  who  heard  the  news  for  the  first  time  on  his  arrival  at 
the  Hall,  very  nearly  had  a  fit  of  apoplexy  on  the  spot,  and  went 
away  again  the  next  morning  for  fear  of  being  compelled  to  wit- 
ness the  happiness  of  the  lovers  whom  he  had  done  his  best  to 
throw  together,  though  in  the  hope  of  a  very  different  result. 

The  marriage  was  fixed  for  the  last  week  in  July.  In  vain 
Vanessa  had  petitioned  for  delay;  had  urged  the  indelicacy,  the 
heartlessness  of  marrying  sixteen  months  after  the  death  of  her 
husband.  Ravenhold  was  resolute;  and  she  loved  him  so  in- 
tensely that  when,  on  one  occasion  of  the  date  being  discussed, 
he  frowned  and  put  himself  into  one  of  his  petulant  tempers,  and 
swore  she  did  not  love  him,  she  yielded,  and  his  lordship  was 
triumphant. 

And  so  the  day  came;  a  glorious  day,  without  one  cloud  in  the 
heavens,  a  day  that  befitted  the  union  of  love  and  youth  and 
beauty.  Words  are  too  poor  to  express  great  joys  and  over- 
whelming sorrows,  so  here  will  I  lay  down  my  pen,  lest  it  be 
tempted  to  extravagance;  to  cross  that  slim  boundary-line  which 
divides  the  sublime  from  the  ridiculous.  Ev5n  the  rejoicing 
young  bridegroom,  speeding  along  the  country  lanes  with  that 
lovely,  beloved  woman  beside  him,  could  find  no  words  in  which 
to  tell  her  of  the  immense  joy  that  filled  his  heart.  How  far  he 
had  once  been  from  dreaming  that  she  would  ever  be  his;  his 
own  lawfully,  without  reproach  before  God  and  man! 

It  is  the  third  week  in  August:"  Mrs.  Fane  is  spending  that 
month,  as  usual,  at  Orange  Court,  and  Lord  and  Lady  Ravenhold 
arrived  last  night  to  be  her  guests  for  the  ten  days  which  re- 
main to  her  of  chatelaineship.  On  the  last  day  of  the  month 
she  will  depart,  and  Mr.  Giles  Fane  will  resume  his  dominion. 
The  magnificent  reception-rooms,  with  their  wealth  of  Louis 
Quatorze  furniture  and  ornament,  will  be  reshrouded  in  their 
holland  coverings;  the  exquisite  chandeliers  transformed  into 
in  versed  balloons;  the  carved  frames  of  the  mirror  swathed  and 
bandaged  until  Mrs.  Fane  or  her  mother-in-law  again  visits  the 
Court.  The  gun-room,  billiard-room,  and  two  large  rooms  ad- 
jacent, which  the  o\5?ner  uses  as  bedroom  and  sitting-room,  anc* 
which  are  all  on  a  jjfevel  with  the  entrance-hall,  are  the  onL 
apartments  which  heever  enters  when  alone  at  the  Court.  Ne~  «\ 


166  I 'HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

do  his  hobnailed  boots  ascend  the  flight  of  marble  steps  that 
leads  to  the  house  proper.  All  the  beautiful  furniture  and  dec- 
orations are  so  much  trash  in  his  eyes;  once  or  twice  he  has  been 
half  tempted  in  a  drunken  orgy  to  make  a  raid  upon  them  with 
Borne  choice  spirits,  leaving  ruin  and  havoc  behind  him. 

Orange  Court  is  a  very  different  place  from  that  designed  by 
its  first  proprietor.  Then  it  was  a  solid  brick  mansion  in  Queen 
Anne  style,  named  in  compliment  to  that  sovereign's  brother- 
in-law.  Giles  Fane's  father  pulled  down  and  rebuilt  it  in  the 
Italian  style,  with  terraces  and  balustrades,  and  flights  of  steps 
decorated  with  marble  statues,  fountains,  and  rows  of  myrtle 
and  orange-trees  in  tubs.  To  this  last  feature  it  is  popularly 
considered  by  the  present  generation  to  owe  its  name.  It  is  a 
house,  a  palace  rather,  very  charming  and  beautiful  to  eyes  not 
so  highly  cultured  as  to  be  able  to  pronounce  it  meretricious  and 
in  bad  taste.  Too  much  knowledge  on  any  particular  subject  is 
frequently  a  hinderance  to  enjoyment. 

In  deference  to  his  mother's  wish,  Giles  Fane  has  the  beautiful 
gardens  kept  up,  though  he  never  goes  into  them  himself,  and 
looks  upon  them  with  as  much  contempt  as  on  the  fine  .furni- 
ture inside  the  house.  The  party  is  quite  a  small  one;  indeed,  it 
consists  only  of  the  Ravenholds,  Lady  Cornelia  Fane,  Colonel 
Dallas,  Mrs.  Fane,  and  Mr.  Anson. 

The  lovers,  Hermione  has  decided,  would  be  very  much  bored 
if  they  had  to  give  up  their  love-making  and  do  company  man- 
ners, and  she  would  not,  she  declared,  make  other  people  wretched 
at  the  sight  of  bliss  they  could  not  share,  nor  demoralize  them 
into  trying  to  be  happy  in  a  less  legitimate  manner. 

"  I  dare  say  I  shall  die  of  envy  myself,"  she  adds;  "  but  that 
cannot  be  helped." 

It  is  a  lovely  Sunday  afternoon — they  have  all  been  to  church 
in  the  morning,  and  are  now,  after  a  big  lunch,  resting  from 
their  labors.  Tl\e  lovers  have  of  course  gone  off  together;  Lady 
Cornelia  is  dozing  over  a  book  of  sermons;  the  colonel  is  discon- 
solately pacing  one  of  the  avenues  with  a  cigar  for  company; 
Hermione  and  Roland  Anson  are  sitting  together  on  a  rustic 
bench  at  the  end  of  a  long  green  alley  planted  with  a  double 
border  of  yews.  Presently  they  see  Lord  and  Lady  Ravenhold 
emerge  from  one  of  the  side  walks — his  arm  is  round  her  waist, 
her  face  is  upturned  to  his.  Becoming  aware  of  the  occupants 
of  the  bench,  they  vanish  as  swiftly  as  they  appeared. 

Hermione  darts  a  glance  half  comic,  half  petulant,  at  her 
companion. 

"  How  sorry  I  am  I  asked  them  here!"  she  says.  "  The  sight 
of  so  much  happiness  makes  me  positively  ill.  I  shall  have  jaun- 
dice or  bilious  fever  before  they  go.  It  seems  to  make  me  %  turn 
over  like,'  as  my  old  nurse  used  to  say." 

"  Console  yourself,"  returns  her  companion — "  it  will  not 
last/' 

Hermione  gives  a  sigh  that  seems  as  though  it  would  rend  her 
lace  boddice  in  twain. 

41  But  only  thinly  how  divinely  happy  they  are  now!"  she  says. 


I    SIVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  1§7 

''Only  think,"  he  returns,  "how  unutterably  wretched  they 
will  be  when  their  illusions  dispel  and  their  raptures  are  over!" 

"  But  they  will  have  the-delightful  remembrance  of  what  they 
once  enjoyed." 

"  A  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things." 

quotes  Ronald  Anson. 

"  I  don't  know,"  says  Hermione.  "  I  would  rather  be  happy 
and  remember  it,  than  have  no  pleasant  memories." 

"  So  would  not  I,"  he  answers.  "  I  think  it  must  be  madden- 
ing to  remember  intense  happiness,  and  to  know  that  it  will 
never  come  again." 

Hermione  looks  away  to  the  furthest  point  of  the  green  alley. 

*'  Oh!"  she  says,  in  a  voice  of  intense  longing,  •'  only  think  of 
the  utter  bliss  of  loving  and  being  passionately  beloved,  and  of 
its  being  right!  It  is  a  horrid,  humiliating  thought  that  one  is 
not  loved;  indeed,  that  one  is  disliked  by  one's  own  husband. 
Why,"  petulantly,  "why  should  mine  dislike  me?  And  that 
woman!  oh,  heaven!  did  you  see  the  wretch  in  church  this 
morning? — to  think  he  adores  her  and  hates  me!" 

"  My  dear  child,"  observes  Mr.  Anson,  "  you  need  hardly  let 
that  distress  you.  I  suppose  a  pig  would  naturally  prefer  a  cab- 
bage to  a  bunch  of  lilies  and  roses." 

44  That  is  very  nicely  put,"  says  Hermione,  half  smiling,  "  but 
it  does  not  console  me.  Did  you  see  her  flaunting  herself  under 
my  very  nose,  in  her  blue  silk  gown  and  her  Paisley  shawl,  and 
that  orange  feather  in  her  hat,  and  the  great  gold  chain  around 
her  neck?  And  her  troop  of  snub-nosed  urchins!  I  suppose 
the  congregation  were  all  thinking  how  bad  I  must  feel.  It  is 
r.ot  that  I  really  care,"  cries  Hermione,  trying  to  strangle  her 
emotion,  "but,  sometimes,  a  sort  of  fury  comes  over  me  arid  I 
feel  capable  of  doing  something  desperate.  I  want  to  fling  his 
money  in  his  face  and  .shake  the  dust  of  his  hateful  place  from 
my  feet,  and  cry,  *  Go  and  be  happy 'with  your  choice,  and  besot 
yourself  with  drink  and  turn  the  place  into  a  tavern,  and  let  me 
forget  such  a  being  exists  on  the  face  of  the  earth!'  Roland!" 
turning  suddenly  upon  him — "you  have  often  pretended  to  be 
fond  of  me.  I  don't  suppose  you  really  are,  o-r  you  would  have 
asked  me  long  ago  to  leave  my  wretched  life  and  go  away  with 
you.  Why  do  you  not :" 

'•  Why  V"  he  says,  looking  at  her  with  a  tender,  melancholy 
gaze,  "  because  I  love  you  better  than  I  love  myself." 

•'  It  is  very  easy  to  say  that,"  she  answers,  half  mockingly. 

*'  Yes,"  he  says.  "  easier  than  to  prove  it." 

"  Most  men."  she  goes  on  (for  it  pleases  her  to  try  him) — "  most 
men.  seeing  a  woman  they  cared  for  utterly  wretched,  would 
say,  *  Come  to  me,  and  let  me  try  to  make  you  happy.'  " 

"  It  would  be  only  when  I  had  said  tliat,  and  you  had  con- 
sented, that  you  would  know  what  it  is  to  be  utterly  wretched." 

"  Because  you  would  get  tired  of  me  and  desert  me." 

"  No;  but  because  the  love  of  one  man  cannot  in  a  thousandth 
degree  compensate  a  woman  for  the  lose  of  the  rest  of  the  world 
and  for  her  own  self-respect." 


168  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

11  Then  you  think  a  woman,  however  wretched  in  her  home; 
ought  to  stick  to  it,  and  that  she  has  no  business  to  want  love? 
even  though  she  is  quite  young  and  has  strong  affections  ?" 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what*  I  think?"  he  says,  his  voice  kindling 
a  little.  "  I  think  every  human  being,  man  or  woman,  who 
craves  for  love,  should  be  allowed  to  enjoy  it;  if  they  have 
at  first  chosen  an  unworthy  object,  they  ought  to  be  able  to 
choose  again.  I  do  not  believe  the  Almighty,  who  has  im- 
planted in  our  hearts  that  great  need  of  love,  which  is,  being 
pure,  the  holiest  feeling  on  earth,  would  ordain  that  any  one 
should  lead  a  loveless  life  because  he  or  she  has  begun  it  with  an 
error  of  judgment.  That  ordinance  is  man's;  it  is  not  God  who 
punishes,  but  society.  If  society  opened  its  arms  to  a  woman 
who  left  her  husband  for  another  man,  do  you  think  she  would 
feel  remorse  or  degradation  ?  Society  punishes,  and  the  punish- 
ment  is  so  terrible  that  no  woman  can  bear  it,  least  of  all  a  sen- 
sitive, pure-hearted  woman  as  you  are.  That,  child,  is  why  I 
never  proposed  to  make  you  happy  by  insuring  your  misery. 
Though,"  smiling  sadly,  "  I  think  I  know  you  too  well  to  im- 
agine that,  had  I  prayed  and  importuned  you  ever  since  I  knew 
you,  you  would  have  consented  to  my  prayers." 

Two  tears  steal  down  Hermione's  cheeks,  her  mouth  works 
with  emotion.  Then,  rising  abruptly,  she  says: 

"  Come,  let  us  go  and  walk." 

So  they  wander  off  silently  together.  Presently  they  come 
with  some  suddenness  upon  the  lovers.  Ravenhold's  arm  is,  as 
usual,  round  his  wife;  with  his  hand  he  clasps  both  of  hers;  her 
head  lies  tranquilly  on  his  shoulder.  At  sight  of  the  other  pair 
she  makes  a  gesture  as  though  to  start  away  from  him,  but-  he 
holds  her  fast,  and  says,  with  laughing  eyes  and  lips: 

"  No,  no,  my  love,  we  are  doing  nothing  wrong.  How  delight- 
ful," apostrophizing  the  new-comers,  "  to  have  done  with  guilty 
terrors,  and  not  to  be  obliged  to  keep  one  eye  and  one  ear  al- 
ways open  for  unexpected  arrivals!" 

But  Vanessa,  with  the  modesty  becoming  her  sex,  insists  upon 
freeing  herself  from  his  embrace.  Her  lovely  face  is  dyed  with 
blushes  as  deep  as  though  her  action  were  not  quite  lawful  and 
proper. 

"  Ah,  my  dears,"  says  Hermione,  with  mock  seriousness,  "  do 
not  exhaust  your  bliss  too  soon.  Think  of  all  the  long  future, 
and  economize."  » 

'•Our  store  is  boundless,"  cries  Ravenhold,  joyously — "there 
is  no  end  of  it.  We  can  eat  our  cake  and  keep  it  too — it  will  be 
like  the  widow's  cruse." 

"  I  hope  it  may,"  says  Hermoine,  a  trifle  maliciously. 

"  You  are  jealous,  my  dear,"  retorts  her  brother. 

"Jam, "she  returns,  with  emphasis.  "Come,"  to  her  corn^ 
panion,  "  let  us  go  and  leave  them.  The  sight  of  them  gives  in© 
the  spleen." 


/    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE  year  h#s  waned — the  happiest  year  of  Vanessa's  life — the 
new  year  is  already  in  its  second  month.  It  has  been,  on  the 
whole,  a  time  of  brilliant  sunshine  and  summer  skies  (figura- 
tively speaking,  of  course);  but  there  have  been  some  clouds. 
Vanessa's  eyes  have  rained  tears  more  than  once;  tears  called 
forth  by  a  sharp  or  petulant  word  from  her  lord,  but  he  has  al- 
ways kissed  them  away  again.  She  is  his  most  humble  slave; 
she  adores  him  so  intensely,  so  unwisely,  that  a  cold  or  angry 
inflection  in  his  voice  has  power  to  terrify  and  make  her 
wretched— she  thinks  wonderingly,  almost  enviously,  of  the 
time  when  she  could  play  off  disdainful  airs  upon  him,  and  pro- 
voke him  by  her  malicious  pretense  of  indifference.  She  is  pain- 
fully conscious  that  the  tables  are  turned  now  —that  he  holds 
the  whip  and  reins,  and  that  she  is  forced  to  go  whither  it  is  his 
will  to  drive  her.  Once,  in  December,  when  Hermione  was  on 
a  visit  to  them,  she  thought  fit  to  say  to  her  lovely  sister-in- 
law: 

"  My  dear,  you  are  making  a  rod  for  your  own  back." 

"  How  ?"  asks  Vanessa,  smiling. 

"  You  let  Gerard  see  that  you  are  too  fond  of  him." 

"  But  I  am  fond  of  him.  He  is  my  only  thought  in  the 
world"  (her  eyes  kindling).  "  I  worship  the  ground  he  walks 
on." 

And  she  proclaims  this  with  her  head  well  thrown  up  and  a 
proud  air,  as  though  she  gloried  in  her  chains. 

"  Beware,  my  dear!"  smiles  Hermione.  "  Men  are  human — 
very  human— Gerard  is  particularly  human." 

"  What  then?"  asks  Vanessa. 

"  Why,  then,"  returns  Hermione,  a  trifle  embarrassed,  "  it 
does  not  do  to  let  them  know  their  power,  because — because 
they  are  sometimes  apt  to  abuse  it." 

*  But  if  I  am  altogether  devoted  to  him  ?"  . 

"  Be  devoted,  but  do  not  show  it  more  than  you  can  help." 

This  policy,  however,  does  not  lend  itself  to  Lady  Ravenhold's 
ideas. 

The  winter  has  been  delightfully  passed  in  entertaining  and 
being  entertained.  Vanessa  has  been  fetea  and  flattered  every- 
where; with  her  beauty,  rank,  and  charming,  gracious  manners, 
she  has  made  a  sort  of  royal  progress.  RavenhoLd,  being  much 
influenced,  as  men  frequently  are,  by  seeing  the  impression  his 
beautiful  wife  creates,  values  her  all  the  more  on  this  account, 
and  excites  much '  indignation  and  pretended  ridicule  in  the 
breasts  of  other  handsome  women  who  would  fain  share  his 
attentions  by  his  show  of  exclusive  devotion  to  Vanessa.  She 
has,  up  to  this  moment,  never  experienced  a  single  pang  of 
jealousy. 

It  has  been  arranged  that  they  shall  spend  the  last  fortnight 
of  February  in  London,  and  they  have  made  delightful  plans  for 
enjoying  their  visit  thoroughly.  Parties  to  the  play,  little  din- 
pers,  all  sorts  of  pleasant  rendezvous.  Most  unfortunately,  Va- 


170  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

nessa  caught  cold  on  the  journey  up,  and  it  lias  developed  into 
an  influenza  of  Vfce  severest  kind.  Stirring  out  of  the  hotel  is 
not  to  be  thought  of,  even  if  she  did  not  feel,  as  she  does,  too  ill 
to  move;  even  if  the  weather  were  genial  instead  of  raw  and 
foggy. 

Her  husband's  vexation  is  almost  more  trying  to  bear  than  her 
own  sufferings;  he  seems  more  put  out  than  sympathetic;  it  is  as 
if  she  had  caught  cold  to  be  perverse,  instead  of  being  bitterly 
disappointed  as  she  is. 

On  the  second  day  after  their  arrival,  she  is  so  much  worse  that 
she  remains  in  bed  until  luncheon- time.  Ravenhold  has  been  out 
all  the  morning,  and  as  soon  as  lunch  is  over  he  takes  his  hat  pre- 
paratory to  starting  off  again. 

"  Are" you  going  out,  darling?"  says  Vanessa,  imploringly. 

"  Well,  I  was/'  he  answers,  hesitatingly. 

"Do  stop  with  me,"  she  entreats.  "*'I  feel  so  ill  and  so 
wretched." 

He  puts  his  hat  down  with  a  little  jerk,  goes  to  the  window 
and  looks  out. 

ik  I  wish  to  goodness  we  hadn't  come  up,"  he  observes,  discon- 
tentedly. "  Beastly  weather,  and  all  one's  plans  knocked  on  the 
head  by  this  infernal  cold  of  yours!" 

Perhaps  he  does  not  intend  his  tone  to  be  reproachful,  but 
it  is. 

"  I  thought  it  was  very  silly  of  you  having  that  window  down 
and  sitting  with  your  face  to" the  engine." 

"  I  wish  you  had  told  me  so,  darling,"  observes  Vanessa, 
meekly. 

"  What's  the  use  of  telling  a  woman  anything?"  he  returns, 
with  latent  irritability.  "She's  sure  to  do  the  very  reverse." 

Vanessa  feels  the  tears  rising,  and  concludes  that  she  had  bet- 
ter let  the  unwilling  captive  go. 

"  If  you  want  to  go,  dear,  I  won't  keep  you,"  she  says. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  if  I  do  stay?"  he  asks,  briskly; 
and  as  she  cannot  reply  in  his  present  mood,  "  Yes,  you  can  come 
and  sit  by  me  and  hold  my  hand,  and  comfort  and  console  me/' 
she  replies,  reluctantly 

•'*  No,  I  don't  think  so." 

He  pounces  joyfully  on  his  hat;  his  manner  becomes  cheery 
again. 

"  Can  I  bring  you  in  anything  ?"  he  asks,  with  his  hand  on  the 
door — "  any  lozenges  or  anything  ?" 

"  No,  thanks,  dearest,"  she  replies,  and  he  goes  briskly  out 
with  a  smile  and  a  nod. 

Vanessa  feels  very  desolate:  she  leans  back  in  her  chair,  puts 
her  feet  on  the  fender,  and  shuts  her  eyes.  After  all,  people 
who  say  the  world  is  a  miserable  place  are  not  so  altogether 
wrong. 

It  is  the  longest,  dreariest  afternoon  she  has  ever  passed. 
Her  head  aches;  a  sense  of  oppression  almost  stifles  her.  She 
is  too  uncomfortable  to  doze.  She  looks  constantly  at  the 
hideous  and  gigantic  gilt  clock  on  the  chimney-piece.  It 
seems  hardly  possible  that  the  hand  can  taJaeaud^an  immense 


LIVED    AND    LOVED.  171 

time  to  travel  one  little  minute.  She  gets  up,  and  looks  out 
of  the  window.  The  atmosphere  is  dull  and  yellowish,  ^ut, 
for  all  that,  broughams,  occasional  victorias,  swift  hansoms  are 
dashing  about,  and  there  seems  a  general  stir  and  animation, 
as  though  no  one  minded  much  about  the  weather ,  And  but 
for  this  wretched  cold  she  too  would  be  out,  shopping,  walking, 
driving,  amusing  herself  somehow  in  company  with  lier  heart's 
beloved.  She.  goes  back  to  the  fire,  shuts  her  eyes,  and  begins 
to  think. 

It  is  quite  a  long  time  since  she  even  remembered  John 
Brandon.  It  seems  almost  as  though  she  had  been  his  wife  in 
Aorne  former  life:  some  previous  and  different  state  of  existence 
altogether.  But  to-day  time  is  effaced;  the  past  is  brought  back. 
It  might  have  been  only  last  week  that  she  was  living  in  Bryan- 
eton  Square,  in  the  early  months  of  their  marriage.  She  re- 
members how,  in  her  first  winter  in  London,  she  had  a  severe, 
feverish  cold  as  now,  and  all  the  circumstances  recur  vividly  to 
her  memory.  Brandon  used  to  come  home  earlier  from  busi- 
ness that  he  might  sit  with  her,  and  cheer  her  up,  and  try  to 
make  her  forget  her  discomfort.  Lest  she  should  be  lonely,  he 
dined  up-stairs  with  her.  He  used  to  read  to  her,  or  sit  holding 
her  hand,  and  pillowing  her  head  upon  his  breast.  He  used  to 
wake  in  the  night  to  give  her  her  medicine;  waiting  on  her, 
thinking  of  all  her  wants,  seemed  to  be  a  pleasure  rather  than  a 
trouble  to  him.  He  only  left  her  because  business  obliged  him, 
and  then  he  came  back  as  soon  as  possible. 

The  tears  ooze  through  Vanessa's  closed  lids  as  she  remembers 
how  bored  Ravenhold  has  seemed  the  last  two  or  three  days; 
how  silent  he  has  been;  how  he  has  appeared  to  consider  her  ill- 
ness his  grievance  rather  than  hers.  But  oh!  how  long  the  time 
seems!  how  immensely  she  looks  forward  to  his  coming  back! 
how  she  listens,  holding  her  breath,  to  every  footfall  on  the 
stairs,  and  feels  a  pang  of  disappointment  each  time  it  passes 
without  stopping.  It  grows  dark;  the  waiter  comes  in  and 
lights  up  three  great  gas-burners,  and  brings  her  tasteless  tea 
and  abominably  cut  bread  and  butter,  both  of  the  worst  possible 
quality,  such  as  one  gets  in  the  best  private  hotels  in  London. 
The  minutes  crawl  on,  and  Vanessa  feels  in  turn  hurt,  irritable, 
wounded  by  her  husband's  neglect.  But  every  other  feeling  is 
forgotten  in  joy  when  the  door  is  dashed  open,  and  her  lord 
comes  in,  radiant,  handsome,  beaming. 

"  Well,  my  pet,  how  are  you?"  he  cries,  gayly,  coming  up  arid 
taking  her  hand,  and  she  looks  up  at  him  with  an  adoring 
glance,  which,  this  time  last  year,  would  have  sent  his  brain 
reeling  with  joy,  but  which  he  scarcely  remarks  to-day. 

"  I  have  felt  "so  ill,  and  the  time  has  been  so  long,  darling,-' 
she  answers  with  a  little  pout,  like  a  spoilt  child  who  wants  to 
be  made  a  fuss  with. 

Ravenhold  is  too  preoccupied  to  pay  much  attention  to  this. 
He  has  evidently  something  on  his  mind. 

"  By  Jove!  what  a  bore'"  lie  says.  Then  he  looks  at  the 
«lock — it  is  ha  If -past  six. 

14  Should  you  mind  very  much,  darling,"  he  says,  breaking 


172  /    HAVE    LIVEu    AND     LOVED. 

suddenly  into  his  subject,  "  if  I  dined  out  and  went  to  the  play? 
I  just  met  the  Blanks,  and  they  want  me  awfully  to  join  the 
party.  They  were  dreadfully  sorry  to  hear  about  you — she  sent 
her  love,  and  will  look  you  up  to-morrow." 

Vanessa  feels  as  if  her  heart  had  suddenly  frozen  up — a  sense 
of  utte)r  despair  creeps  over  her — if  Gerard  had  announced  his 
intention  of  starting  to-night  for  America  she  could  not  feel 
worse.  After  that  awful  afternoon,  to  think  of  spending  six  or 
seven  more  such  dreadful,  solitary  hours!  She  burst  into  tears 
— tears  that  she  is  utterly  powerless  to  restrain. 

**  Good  God!"  cries  RaVenhold,  impatiently.  "  What  is  there 
to  cry  about  ?  There,  there,  for  Heaven's  sake,  my  dear  child, 
leave  off!  .1  won't  go.  Though,"  pacing  up  and  down  with  a 
hopeless  air,  "  what  in  the  name  of  Fortune  I'm  to  do  in  this 
stifling  room  all  the  evening  I  don't  know.  'Pon  my  soul,  my 
luck  is  too  infernal.  As  soon  as  you're  well  enough,  we'll  get 
back  home.  At  all  events  there  one  won't  be  in  the  midst  of 
pleasant  things  one  can't  enjoy." 

Every  separate  word  is  like  a  stab  to  Vanessa.  But  he  has  no 
intention  of  wounding  her— he  is  only  expressing  the  natural 
irritation  of  a  spoilt  young  man,  accustomed  to  having  his  own 
way,  when  something  contradicts  him. 

"  Pray  go,"  she  says,  coldly,  trying  by  that  means  to  conceal 
her  desperate  mortification.  "  Do  not  think  of  me!" 

*'  Of  course  I  shall  not,  if  you  put  it  like  that,"  he  remarks, 
sulkily. 

*'  I  would  much  prefer  your  going."  says  Vanessa,  in  the  same 
cold  voice. 

"  It  is  rather  dog-in-the-manger-like,"  observes  Ravenhold, 
"  to  stop  my  fun  because  you  can't  go  yourself.  And  it's  not  as 
if  I  could  do  you  any  good  by  stopping.  It's  bad  for  you  to  talk, 
and  you  can  have  Dalton"  (her  maid)  **  to  sit  up  with  you  if  you 
are  lonely.  However,  of  course  now  I  shall  not  go." 

And  he  looks  the  picture  of  injury  and  disappointment.  Va- 
nessa has  a  sudden  terrified  intuition  that  if  she  thwarts  him  he 
will  cease  to  love  her.  Anything,  anything  in  the  world  rather 
than  that. 

"  I  wish  you  to  go,"  she  cries,  brushing  away  her  tears.  "  I  do 
indeed;  I  was  just  a  little  disappointed  at  first,  but  really  I  do 
not  mind.  I  could  not  help  crying:  it  is  only  because  Iain  not 
well;  I  shall  be  better  soon,  and  then  I  can  go  with  you."  And 
she  holds  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  sheds  a  look  of  ineffable  ten- 
derness and  forgiveness  upon  him  out  of  her  beautiful  eyes. 

Ravenhold  takes  her  hand. 

11  If  there  was  any  reason  in  it,"  he  says,  allowing  himself  to 
be  brought  round,  as  he  is  desperately  anxious  to  go;  "  if  I  could 
do  anything  for  you,  I  would  stop  with  the  greatest  pleasure  in 
life.  You  know  that,  child!" 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  she  answers,  trying  to  speak  cheerfully, 
and  to  stifle  the  gna wings  of  her  heart.  **  I  shall  not  mind.  I 
must  make  haste  and  get  well." 

"  Do,  darling,"  he  returns,  affectionately.  "  You  know  I 
would  fifty  times  rather  go  with  you  than  without  you.  In  fact 


1    HAVE    L1VUD    AND    LOVED:  173 

it's  not  so  much  that  I  care  to  go  as  that  they  were  so  tremen- 
dously keen  about  it.  But" — looking  at  the  clock — i4  if  I  am 
going,  I  must  look  sharp,  for  we  dine  at  seven  fifteen." 

With  that  he  goes  blithely  out. 

Vanessa  sits  staring  at  the  fire,  biting  her  lips,  clinching  her 
teeth,  trying  with  all  her  might  to  keep  back  the  tears  that  will 
force  their  way  to  her  eyes. 

In  ten  minutes  Ravenhold  dashes  in  again,  looking  handsomer 
than  ever;  all  his  face  alight  with  pleasurable  emotion. 

"  Good-bye,  darling.  Mind  you  eat  a  good  dinner;  and  have 
Borne  champagne.  Best  thing  in  the  world  for  a  cold.  And  go 
to  bed  very  early !" 

"  You  won't  be  late,  will  you?"  says  Vanessa,  with  a  glance 
of  entreaty. 

' '  No — at  least  I  don't  think  so.  But  on  no  account  sit  up  for 
me.  I  shall  sleep  in  the  dressing-room,  and  I'll  be  very  quiet,  so 
as  not  to  disturb  you.  Good-bye,  my  pet"— taking  her  hand. 
•*  I  won't  kiss  you,  for  fear  of  catching  your  cold." 

Then  he  goes  off  like  a  whirlwind,  and  Vanessa,  is  alone  for 
an  indefinite  time  that  seems  like  eternity.  No  homeless  out- 
cast, no  pariah  feels  more  desolate  and  hopeless  than  she  does  at 
this  moment.  It  seems  to  her  as  though  her  brief  spell  of  joy  is 
over,  and  she  will  never  be  happy  again. 

When  you  come  to  think  of  it,  it  is  inconceivably  ridiculous, 
not  to  say  wicked,  that  a  young  woman,  with  everything  in  the 
world  to  make  her  fate  seem  enviable,  should  allow  a  trifling 
inconvenience  to  cause  her  so  much  anguish;  but  the  pain  we 
suffer  is  not  always  to  be  gauged  by  the  apparent  cause.  She 
suffers  acutely;  her  misery  seems  almost  greater  than  she  can 
bear.  But  for  the  fear  of  an  incoming  waiter,  or  the  advent  of 
her  attentive  maid,  she  would  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  weep- 
ing. How  handsome  he  looked!  For  the  first  time  she  feels  a 
pang  of  jealousy  as  she  sees  him,  in  imagination,  talking  in  his 
charming,  caressing  manner  to  some  other  woman.  That  re- 
minds her  that  she  does  not  know  of  whom  the  party  consists, 
except  Colonel  and  Lady  Ida  Blank.  She  is  not  afraid  of  Lady 
Ida,  but  no  doubt  there  will  be  other  women  of  the  party. 

The  waiter  lays  the  cloth,  and  Vanessa  goes  through  the  mis- 
erable and  most  melancholy  farce  of  dinner.  Does  a  man  ever 
feel  half  as  wretched  over  a  solitary  meal  as  a  woman,  I  wonder  ? 
But  no — for  he  can  take  an  interest  in  his  dinner;  and  I  hardly 
fancy  that  a  woman,  be  she  even  something  of  a  gourmet,  can 
enjoy  eating  alone. 

Vanessa's  dinner  is  one  of  those  tasteless  and  unappetizing 
meals  which  seem  to  be  de  rigeur  in  English  private  hotels. 
There  is  the  half -warm,  clear  soup  in  the  massive  plated  tureen, 
followed  by  a  sole,  fried  in  fine  gravel,  and  served  with  tallow- 
colored  melted  butter — a  sweetbread  which  defies  the  efforts  of 
the  spoon,  surrounded  by  red  lead,  playfully  called  tomato 
sauoe.  A  chicken  decorated  with  pale,  half-cooked  sausages, 
accompanied  by  a  cauliflower  or  greens  which  make  the  room 
almost  uninhabitable  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  and  a  sweet 
omelet.  In  vain  the  solemn  and  obsequious  raven  hands  all 


174  /     HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED, 

these  tempting  dishes  to  her  ladyship — her  dinner  consists  ot 
two  spoonfuls  of  soup,  and  two  inches  in  length,  not  thickness, 
of  chicken.  And  when  this  banquet  is  over,  she  betakes  herself 
again  to  the  arm-chair  by  the  fire.  Her  head  acht-s  worse  than 
ever — the  atmosphere  is  stifling — she  longs  to  throw  open  the 
window  and  put  her  head  out  into  the  night  air;  but  she  is  chilly 
as  well  as  feverish,  and  does  not  attempt  the  dangerous  experi- 
ment. She,  however,  bids  the  waiter  turn  out  all  the  gas,  for 
then,  she  thinks,  she  can  cry  unperceived.  And  cry  she  must. 
When  he  is  gone  and  she  is  alone  in  the  firelight,  she  weeps  and 
sobs  and  sighs  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  Foolish  Vanessa,  to 
make  all  this  woe  for  herself!  What  is  to  become  of  her  future? 
what  will  she  do  when  a  real  grief  attacks  her  ? 

She  meant  to  sit  up  for  her  husband  in  spite  of  his  injunction 
to  the  contrary,  but  when  ten  o'clock  comes  she  is  so  utterly 
worn  out  that  she  finds  it  impossible  to  endure  this  wretched- 
ness longer  and  elects  to  exchange  it  for  another  kind. 

"Dear  me,  my  lady,  your  cold  is  bad!*'  .jays  Dalton,  sympa- 
thetically; "  your  eyes  are  as  red  as  fire." 

And  though  she  says  this  quite  innocently,  she  is  perfectly 
well  aware  that  the  appearance  of  her  ladyship's  eyes  is  not  to 
be  accounted  for  by  her  influenza. 

Vanessa  dawdles  over  her  night  toilet,  anxiously  hoping  that 
her  lord  might  come  in  before  it  is  completed,  but  such  is  not 
the  case.  She  dismisses  her  maid,  and  sits  crouching  over  the 
fire  for  three  quarters  of  an  hour,  which  seem  like  as  many 
hours.  It  is  now  twenty  minutes  to  twelve.  Her  head  and 
limbs  ache  so  intolerably  that  she  decides  to  betake  herself  to 
bed.  When  she  thinks  she  has  been  there  at  least  an  hour, 
the  clock  in  the  next  room  strikes  twelve.  It  is  followed  by 
two  church  clocks  in  the  neighborhood.  Suddenly  a  wild  ter- 
ror takes  possession  of  Vanessa.  Suppose  something  should 
have  happened  to  her  idol  ?  Suppose  he  should  have  been 
knocked  down  by  a  cab,  or  the  horse  of  his  hansom  has  bolted, 
and  he  is  at  this  moment  lying  maimed,  insensible,  perhaps  dead, 
in  some  hospital  ?  This  thought  drives  her  into  a  frenzy.  But 
perhaps,  after  all,  he  has  come  in — quietly,  as  he  said,  so  as  not 
to  disturb  her,  and  is  already  safe  in  bed.  She  jumps  up,  opens 
the  dressing-room  door,  and  calls,  softly: 

"Gerard!" 

No  answer.  Again,  louder;  no  answer.  She  lights  a  candle 
and  goes  in;  the  room  is  empty:  it  is  as  cold  as  a  well  besides. 
She  shivers  and  goes  back  to  her  own  fire,  which  she  piles  up 
with  coals.  She  throws  a  wrapper  round  her  and  resumes  pos- 
session of  the  chair  by  the  fire— she  will  not  get  into  bed  again. 
She  leaves  the  door  ajar— the  cold  comes  in  and  sets  her  cough- 
ing violently. 

Half  past  twelve.  She  cannot  bear  it  any  longer;  she  paces 
the  room  up  and  down — she  goes  into  the  sitting-room  and 
looks  out  of  the  window.  Every  now  and  then  a  hansom  dashes 
by — one  or  two  stop — she  listens  with  straining  ears  for  Gerard's 
»tep;  it  doep  not  come. 

A  quarter  to  one.     She  has  an  agonized  certainty  now  that 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  175 

something  has  happened  to  him — he  would  not  be  so  cruel  as  to 
Btay  out  like  this  merely  for  his  own  amusement's  sake  whilst 
she  was  suffering  -this  intolerable  agony  of  suspense.  If  she 
were  only  in  her  own  house,  she  would  call  up  the  servants  and 
send  them  in  all  directions  to  search  for  her  missing  lord,  but 
here  she  would  probably  be  thought  mad. 

Five  minutes  past  one,  and  then  his  lordship  comes  creeping 
stealthily  into  his  dressing-room,  and  looks  anything  but  pleased 
to  find  his  wife  standing  in  the  cold  with  wild,  terrified  eyes, 
looking  like  a  ghost. 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

"WHAT  on  earth  have  you  been  sitting  up  for?"  he  says, 
almost  irritably.  "  Do  you  want  to  catch  your  death  of  cold?" 

Vanessa  interrupts  him  by  bursting  into  a  hysterical  fit  of 
weeping.  He  goes  and  leans  against  the  chimney-piece,  looking 
bored  to  death.  His  wife's  tears  do  not  touch  him;  he  does  not 
feel  sorry  for  her,  but,  on  the  contrary,  indignant  at  her  un- 
reasonableness. This  is  the  first  time  he  has  felt  the  gall  of  the 
marriage-chain,  and  he  dislikes  the  sensation  amazingly.  He 
has  had  a  cheery  evening,  and  now  to  come  back  to  tears  and 
reproaches,  when  he  wants  to  go  to  bed  and  to  sleep,  is  extremely 
annoying.  There  is  a  little  guilt  on  his  conscience,  too,  and  he 
had  been  particularly  anxious  to  retire  without  having  to  inter- 
view his  wife,  or  retail  the  events  of  the  evening. 

As  for  Vanessa,  her  fears  being  assuaged,  she  feels  the  not  un- 
natural reaction  of  anger  at  having  suffered  needless  tortures. 
When  she  can  speak  after  her  fit  of  sobbing,  she  says: 

1  'How  cruel  of  you  to  frighten  me  so!  I  thought  you  were 
killed." 

"  Good  heavens!"  cried  her  husband,  his  handsome  young  face 
clouding  with  anger  and  impatience.  "  Am  I  to  be  treated  like 
a  child  of  ten  ?  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  send  a  servant  to 
fetch  me  the  next  time." 

"There  shall  not  be  any  next  time,"  cries  Vanessa.  "I  ^ili 
go  with  you,  if  I  die  after  it,  but  I  won't  be  left  alone." 

Ravenhold  looks  anything  but  enchanted  at  this  announce- 
ment— the  same  moment,  however,  Vanessa  is  seized  with  a 
violent  paroxysm  of  coughing,  which  diverts  the  current  of  his 
thoughts. 

"My  dear  child,"  he  cries,  "don't  cough  like  that!  You'll 
break  a  blood-vessel.  Haven't  you  got  any  cough  mixture,  or 
lozenges,  or  anything  ?"  and  he  proceeds  to  hunt  about  for  rent- 
ed ies. 

Finding  nothing  else,  he  brings  her  a  glass  of  water,  and  pres- 
ently her  cough  subsides,  and  she  lies  back  exhausted  in  her 
chair,  literally  worn  out,  quite  beyond  reproaches. 

"  Now,  darling,  do  get  into  bed,"  urges  her  lord,  and  she  al- 
lows herself  to  be  persuaded.  Then  he  bids  her  go  to  sleep  at 
«nce. 

"  Don't  leave  me!"  she  murmurs,  in  an  imploring  whisper. 

"But,  my  good  child,  this  room  is  like  a  furnace !     I  should 


176  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

die  of  suffocation.     I  could  not  sleep  one  wink  for  that  cough  of 
yours,  and  I  am  as  tired  as  a  dog." 

"  Very  well,"  she  answers,  coldly.     "  Good-night." 

And  when  he  is  gone,  her  tears  flow  again,  and  she  remem- 
bers that  Brandon  never  found  the  room  too  hot  or  complained 
of  being  kept  awake  by  her  cough. 

In  the  morning  she  is,  naturally,  very  much  worse;  indeed, 
the  doctor  positively  forbids  her  to  rise.  Raven  hold  comes  and 
Bits  on  the  edge  of  her  bed  for  ten  minutes  and  inquires  affec- 
tionately about  her  health  and  feelings  generally;  then  he  re- 
members a  most  important  engagement  which  cannot  be  put  off 
but  will  only  detain  him  half  an  hour.  He  is  unavoidably  kept, 
however,  four  times  that  period,  and  then  he  looks  in  to  say 
that,  as  he  will  not  be  up  to  luncheon,  and  the  hotel  food  is  so 
beastly,  he  will  lunch  at  his  club  and  come  back  directly  after. 
But  again  something  detains  him. 

Vanessa  is  so  weary  of  the  dismal  bedroom  that,  doctor  or  no 
doctor,  she  reeolves  to  be  dressed.  Her  husband  shall  not  have 
the  excuse  of  her  being  in  bed  to  dine  out  to-night.  Dalton 
dresses  her  in  a  lovely  tea-gown  and  plaits  her  hair  a  la  Mar- 
guerite ;  she  cannot  bear  the  fatigue  of  having  it  dressed.  A 
less  uncomfortable  sofa  nas  been  brought  from  another  apart- 
ment, and  her  lovely  ladyship  is  laid  upon  it!  Her  truant  lord 
comes  in  just  in  time  to  carry  her  in.  She  is  not  one  of  your 
little  dolls  of  women  that  a  man  can  run  about  with  in  his 
arms,  but  a  stately,  tall,  and  exquisitely  developed  woman;  but 
Ravenhold  is  very  strong  and  accomplishes  the  feat  without  any 
sign  of  distress. 

She  thanks  him  with  a  smile,  and  says  languidly  that  she  is 
afraid  she  is  terribly  heavy.  He  replies  with  something  of  the 
old  manner  that  he  would  not  have  her  a  feather-weight  lighter, 
and  that  little  speech,  tenderly  uttered,  condones  his  previous 
neglect. 

Important  business  soon  carries  him  off  again,  but  he  has 
promised  to  dine  and  stay  with  her  all  the  evening.  She  has  not 
asked  him  a  word  yet  about  his  doings  last  night;  she  feels  a  lit- 
tle aggrieved  against  the  Blanks  for  having  invited  him  when 
she  was  ill,  and  they  ought  to  have  known  she  wanted  hirr 
People  seem  to  think  it  a  charity  to  take  a  man  away  from  a  sic*, 
wife,  and  perhaps  it  is — to  Mm — but  what  about  her  ? 

Still,  when  at  half  past  five,  Lady  Ida  Blank's  card  is  brought 
up  with  a  message  inquiring  if  she  may  be  admitted,  Vanessa 
replies,  rather  gladly,  in  the  affirmative. 

"My  poor,  dear  child,  this  is  too  dreadful!"  cries  Lady  Ida, 
coming  in.  "  How  on  earth  did  you  manage  to  catch  such  a 
terrible  cold?  But  you  look  charming  all  the  same,  only  just  a 
little  bit  languid;  and  what  a  lovely  frock!  I  hardly  expected 
to  be  admitted,  for  Mildred  Belair  told  me  you  were  frightfully 
ill  and  in  bed." 

Mildred  Belair!  At  that  detested  name  Vanessa's  heart  stands 
absolutely  still  for  a  moment.  Then  a  flame  flies  to  her  white 
cheeks;  she  brings  on  a  fit  of  coughing  to  hide  it. 

"  What  a  cough!     My  dear  child,  you  must  take  care  of  your- 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  :?? 

Bell,  who  is  your  doctor?  I  wish  you'd  have !"  cries  Lady 

Ida,  all  in  a  breath. 

"  I  shall  be  all  right  directly,"  answers  .Vanessa  from  behind 
her  handkerchief.  "  So  Lady  Mildred  told  you  about  me. 
When  did  you  see  her  ?" 

"I  have  just  come  from  there.  Your  husband  had  been 
lunching  with  her,  and  gave  a  shocking  account  of  you.  You 
know  we  were  all  at  the  play  together  last  night.  We  had  a 
delightful  evening,  and  such  a  capital  supper  afterward!  The 
only  drawback  was  your  not  being  there." 

Vanessa  is  obliged  to  talk  very  fast  to  conceal  the  pain  and 
anger  that  are  devouring  her.  A  madness  of  jealousy  is 
strangling  her  heart.  That  he  should  have  concealed  his  meet- 
ing with  Lady  Mildred  from  her  gives  the  most  horrible  point  to 
her  suspicions.  She  is  intensely  thankful  when  Lady  Ida  de- 
parts, but,  left  alone,  her  jealous  anguish  increases  tenfold.  She 
dreads  Lady  Mildred  unutterably,  knowing  the  influence  she 
once  had  over  Eavenhold.  And,  this  time  yesterday,  no  faint- 
est doubt  of  him  had  entered  her  brain.  She  had  fancied  her- 
self unhappy  then  because  she  was  ill  and  alone,  but  what  was 
that  to  the  terrible  reality  ? 

Ravenhold  comes  in  presently  in  the  most  amiable  and  affec- 
tionate mood,  but  she  only  sees  in  this  behavior  the  evidence  of 
a  conscience  trying  to  conceal  its  guilt. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  he  asks  after  a  moment:  for  she  does 
not  look  at  him,  and  only  responds  icily  to  his  affectionate  ques- 
tions. 

"Where  did  you  lunch  to-day?"  she  asks  suddenly,  fixing  her 
eyes  on  him. 

Then  he  knows  that  the  sword  of  Damocles  has  fallen.  He 
had  really  no  motive  for  concealing  anything  about  Lady  Mil- 
dred, except  the  wish  to  spare  his  wife  and  himself  unpleasant- 
ness; having  an  excellent  intuition  from  his  experience  of  the 
fair  sex  that  "  there  would  be  a  row  if  she  knew  it."  He  has  no 
love  for  Lady  Mildred,  because  all  his  passion  is  still  concen- 
trated upon  his  beautiful  wife,  but  he  was  delighted  to  see  her 
again  as  an  old  friend,  and,  considering  the  circumstances,-  she 
had  behaved  awfully  well  and  kindly,  and  had  not  seemed  to 
bear  him  the  least  malice,  as,  indeed,  she  very  well  might.  It 
was  to  reward  her  for  this  that  he  had  consented  to  lunch  with 
her  when  she  pressed  him.  She  had  given  him  a  capital  lunch 
^no  one  understood  these  things  better — and  she  was  the  very 
best  company  in  the  world.  And  not  one  single  allusion  to  the 
past  in  any  way  calculated  to  make  him  uncomfortable.  Only, 
as  he  was  bidding  her  "good-bye,"  she  said,  smiling,  though 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  not  in  a  manner  calling  for  any  reply 
on  his  part: 

"  Come  and  see  me  sometimes.  I  should  not  like  you  to  give 
me  up.  I  shall  always  care  more  for  you  than  for  any  one 
else." 

And  he  had  clasped  her  hand  with  a  great  fervor  of  friendli- 
ness, exclaiming: 

"  I  shall  never  give  you  up!     You  may  be  quite  sure  of  thatP 


178  T'flAVE    LIVED    AND    LO]'$D: 

But  he  was  so  far  from  feeling  anything  more  than  friendship 
for  her  that  he  had  no  guilty  sensations  on  that  score,  but  was 
only  disconcerted  because  he  had  done  something  which  he  knew 
his  wife  would  not  like.  Women  never  will  understand  that  a 
man  can  have  any  feeling  but  one  for  a  woman  in  whose  society 
he  seems  to  find  pleasure.  Therefore  when  Vanessa  attacks  him, 
he  looks  slightly  confused,  and  says,  after  a  moment's  pause: 

"  1  suppose  you  know,  or  you  would  not  ask." 

"Yes,"  she  cries,  the  hot  blood  rushing  to  her  cheeks  and  her 
eyes  flashing  with  passion.  "  Yes,  I  know  that  you  met  her  last 
night  and  made  the  appointment  for  to-day,  and  then  pretended 
to  me  that  you  were  going  to  your  club  to  lunch." 

"  I  made  no  appointment,"  returns  Ravenhold.      "  I  said  I 
-would  go  if    I   could,  and  you  did   not  want  me.      And  I  did 
not  mention  it   to  you,  because   I  knew  if  I  did  there  would 
be  a  scene,  and.  as  you  are  so  unwell,  that  would  be  bad  for  ' 
you." 

"  How  thoughtful  of  you!"  cries  Vanessa,  scornfully.  "And 
pray  why  should  there  have  been  a  scene  V" 

".Because,"  retorts  Ravenhold,  "  you  women  are  so  infernally 
suspicious.  Though  Milly  is  one  of  my  oldest  friends " 

44  Friends!"  echoes  Vanessa,  with  great  meaning.  "Something 
more  than  that,  surely." 

"  I  never  said  so,"  he  replies,  coloring.  "  You  have  no  right 
to  say  that." 

' '  Have  I  not  ?"  she  returns,  with  even  more  significance.  ' '  It 
would  be  strange  if  I  were  ignorant  of  what  every  one  else  knows 
perfectly." 

With  a  sudden  change  of  mood,  Ravenhold  sits  down  beside 
her  and  puts  his  arms  round  her. 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  darling,"  he  says.  "  Have  you  not  proof 
enough  that  I  love  you?  If  I  had  cared  for  her,  should  I 
not  have  gone  straight  to  her  and  asked  her  to  marry  me 
when  she,  like  you,  was  free?  You  know  that  I  have  always 
been  devoted  to  you — you  have  every  atom  of  my  love;  why 
should  you  want  to  make  us  both  wretched  by  pretending  to 
doubt  it  ?" 

And  with  that,  regardless  of  the  risk  of  catching  her  cold,  he 
kisses  her  fifty  times. 

So  there  is  a  renewing  of  love  between  them  which  runs  very 
near  being  disturbed  again  when  Vanessa,  on  the  strength  of 
his  tenderness? ,  begs  him  to  give  up  Lady  Mildred,  and  never  to 
see  her  again.  He  will  not  give  any  such  promise — nay,  more, 
he  insists  that  Vanessa  shall  receive  and  be  civil  to  her  hated 
rival;  and  Vanessa,  terrified  lest  there  should  be  another  quarrel 
between  them  after  their  late  reconciliation,  and  perhaps  satis- 
fied with  the  genuineness  of  her  lord's  passion  for  her,  consents 
to  be  civil  to  her  ladyship,  should  they  meet.  And  meet  they 
do  the  next  day,  when  Lady  Mildred  comes  to  inquire  after  thi 
invalid.  Curiously  enough,  Ravenhold  makes  his  appearance 
three  minutes  later.  Nothing  can  be  sweeter  or  more  charming 
than  Lady  Mildred's  manner  to  Lady  Ravenhold — one  might 
imagine  her  to  be  a  bosom  friend  seriously  unhappy  at  Vanessa's 


1     HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  179 

indisposition.  That  lad}*,  on  the  contrary,  finds  it  literally  im- 
possible to  be  genial  or  friendly — her  manner  is  very  stiff,  and 
utterly  wanting  in  cordiality,  although  she  is  paiuf  ally  conscious 
that  she  is  behaving  without  tact  and  appearing  to  considerable 
disadvantage, 

Lady  Mildred  treats  Ravenhold  in  a  friendly,  almost  affec- 
tionate manner,  as  though  he  were  a  dear  brother;  calls  him 
Gerard,  and  succeeds  (as  she  wishes  to  do)  in  driving  Vanessa 
nearly  mad  with  anger  and  jealousy,  Ravenhold  is  obliged  to 
be  doubly  cordial  to  the  guest  in  order  to  atone  for  his  wife's 
coldness.  Vanessa,  to  her  infinite  chagrin,  is  forced  to  accept  an 
invitation  to  dine  with  Lady  Mildred  as  soon  as  her  cold  shall  be 
better;  if  she  refuses,  she  reads  in  her  husband's  eyes  and  voice 
that  he  will  go  without  her. 

Lady  Mildred  departs  with  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  hatred  in 
her  heart,  compelled,  with  bitter  reluctance,  to  own  Vanessa's 
beauty. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  says  to  herself,  pressing  her  feet  hard 
against  the  carriage-floor,  "  he  will  get  tired  of  her  in  time.  Le 
temps  fait  passer  T amour,  A  woman's  beauty  does  not  prevent 
a  man's  satiety — thank  Heaven!" 

And  with  this  pious  thanksgiving  she  comforts  her  heart,  and 
goes  home  to  receive  a  lover  for  whom  she  had  fancied  until 
quite  lately  she  felt  a  certain  amount  of  tenderness. 

In  a  few  days  Vanessa  is  able  to  throw  off  her  cold;  to  go 
about  with  her  husband,  and  to  enjoy  London.  There  is,  how- 
ever, the  bitter  drop  in  the  cup  which  is  seldom  absent  for  the 
sweet  draught  of  pleasure.  Lady  Mildred  represents  that  drop. 
She  is  not  to  be  daunted  by  Lady  Ravenhold's  coldness— indeed, 
it  seems  as  if  she  does  not  or  will  not  see  it.  Her  dinner-party, 
of  which  she  made  such  a  point,  comes  off,  and  is  graced  by  the 
presence  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom.  Cheer}*  as  the  party 
seems,  radiant  and  beautiful  as  the  ladies  look,  there  is  a  jealous 
fire  burning  in  the  breasts  of  two  of  them. 

During  dinner,  Lady  Mildred,  whose  best  point  is  undoubtedly 
her  fine,  dark  eyes,  speaks  very  plainly  with  them  to  her  whilom 
lover,  and  he  has  a  relapse  of  the  old  caressing  manner  which  he 
once  used  invariably  to  women  he  liked,  but  of  which  latterly 
his  wife  has  had  almost  a  complete  monopoly.  Vanessa  smiles, 
but  her  heart  is  torn  with  fear  and  misery.  Lady  Mildred's  turn 
is  to  come.  After  dinner  Ravenhold  joins  his  lovely  wife,  who 
is  holding  a  little  court  of  men;  and  looks  and  speaks" caressingly 
to  her  with  all  the  love  and  pride  of  possession,  and  Lady  Mil- 
dred notes  it,  and  her  heart  is  devoured  by  a  rage  of  envy  and 
bitterness.  The  two  women  suffer  almost  equally;  but  Raven* 
hold  is  radiant,  charmed  with  both,  and  apparently  ignorant  of 
the  painful  feelings  he  has  excited.  Vanessa  might  have  sulked 
with  him  when  they  got  into  the  brougham  to  drive  home,  only 
that  he  flung  his  arms  around  her,  and  told  her  with  such  unmis- 
takable sincerity  that  she  was  without  doubt  the  loveliest  woman 
in  the  world,  and  had  never  looked  so  well  in  her  life,  that  she 
stifled  down  the  qualms  of  jealousy  and  allowed  herself  to  be 
happy  for  the  time. 


180  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

But  that  terrible  dread  of  Lady  Mildred  remained,  and  it  wa» 
as  if  a  great  load  fell  i'rom  her  heart  when  she  found  herself 
in  the  railway  -carriage  with  her  idol  en  route  for  Dallas  Park; 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

THE  life  that  Vanessa  leads  now  is  a  complete  change  from 
that  which  she  led  up  to  the  time  of  her  engagement  to  Lord 
Ravenhold.  That,  with  the  exception  of  the  few  months  of 
Brandon's  courtship  and  the  early  days  of  their  marriage,  had 
been  one  of  comparative  tranquillity  and  monotony — now  it  is 
composed  of  intense  happiness,  varied  by  sharp  pangs.  It  is  the 
life  of  every  sensitive  woman  who  hangs  upon  a  man's  love.  In 
former  days  her  temper  had  been  equable — now  it  seems  to  her 
tfcat  her  very  nature  is  changed.  Tempests  of  passion,  agonies 
of  fear  and  misery,  sweep  over  her  heart — she  is  either  in  a  sev- 
enth heaven  or  crushed  by  despair,  according  to  the  mood  in 
which  her  lord,  her  master,  happens  to  be.  If  he  is  affectionate 
and  tender,  if  he  flatters  and  caresses  her,  she  is  unspeakably 
happy;  if  he  is  irritable  and  petulant,  or  seems  bored,  she  is 
wretched  beyond  words. 

Until  lately,  she  scarcely  knew  that  she  had  a  temper— the 
language  of  reproach  was  almost  unknown  to  her — now  she  feels 
at  times  as  angry  and  bitter  toward  him  as  at  others  she  is  pas- 
sionately loving;  it  is  as  though  she  must  be  always  in  extremes, 
and  extremes  are  very  exhausting  to  the  nervous  system,  and 
are  apt  to  undermine  both  health  and  temper.  It  seems  a  cruel 
enigma  to  her,  as  it  lias  done  to  most  of  her  sex  before  her,  that 
whereas  her  love  and  her  desire  to  lavish  it  increase  month 
by  month,  his  suffers  a  slow  process  of  decay  and  falling  off. 
She  cannot  assert  that  he  no  longer  loves  her,  but  oh!  how 
changed,  how  different  he  is  from  last  year!  Then  she  was  em- 
press and  he  her  slave — now  the  positions  are  reversed. 

Hardly  a  day  passes  that  she  does  not  feel  wounded  by  some- 
thing he  says  or  does,  and  he,  having  once  begun  the  bad  habit 
engendered  by  familiarity  of  speaking  sharply  to  her  when  he 
is  ill  pleased  or  out  of  temper,  is  not  likely  to  lay  it  aside  again 
easily.  For  all  that,  he  is  very  much  in  love  with  her  still,  and, 
if  she  could  only  have  the  wisdbrn  to  refrain  from  falling  down 
and  worshiping  him.  his  passion  might  be  warranted  to  last  for 
a  long  time  yet.  It  is  all  very  well  for  men  to  be  natural,  to 
show  their  passion  or  their  ennui  with  that  delightful  ingenousiiess 
which  is  their  chief  characteristic  (or  rather  the  chief  character- 
istic of  their  selfishness),  but  a  woman  must  dissemble  if  she 
wants  to  be  moderately  happy.  When  she  feels  ardent,  she  must 
seem  coy;  when  she  is  indifferent,  she  must  pretend  to  be 
affectionate:  if  she  wants  to  keep  the  reins,  her  head  must  be 
clear  and  cool.  All  said  and  done  about  a  woman's  rights  and 
wrongs,  man  is  master  and  she  his  inferior;  it  is  only  by  courtesy 
that  she  is  allowed  to  pretend  to  drive  sometimes. 

In  spite  of  all  that  Vanessa  suffers,  she  would  not  for  anything 
that  could  be  offered  her  exchange  her  lot  with  any  other  hu- 
man being.  To  lose,  Ravenhold  would  be  to  lose  everything  the 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  181 

>voi^  holds  of  joy  or  delight.  But  her  love  gives  new  terrors  to 
her  life.  When  he  is  out  hunting  or  shooting,  she  is  subject  to 
panics  about  his  safety;  if  he  conies  in  later  than  she  expects 
him.  she  knows  pangs  that  women  with  phlegmatic  tempera- 
ments, or  women  whose  being  is  not  wrapped  up  in  their  lords, 
never  dream  of,  mercifully  for  themselves.  Paradise  is  to  her 
the  place  where  her  love  is — Hades  where  he  is  not.  Poor 
Vanessa!  Heaven  pity  any  women  who  loves  thus!  If  she 
knows  greater  joys  than  most  of  her  sex,  she  is  doomed  to  a  far 
greater  excess  of  suffering,  since  pain  preponderates  so  immeas- 
urably in  this  world  of  tears. 

Just  before  Easter  they  go  to  Paris  for  a  fortnight.  It  is  an 
admitted  fact  that  nothing  is  more  trying  to  conjugal  harmony 
than  travel,  especially  foreign  travel.  Ravenhold  is  of  an  impa- 
tient, petulant,  imperious  disposition,  and  particularly  dislikes 
trouble  and  opposition.  He  gets  put  out  very  often,  and  vents 
it,  in  the  manner  considered  legitimate  by  husbands,  on  his  wife. 
Vanessa  has  a  fine  spirit,  one  that  is  remarkably  quick  to  resent 
injustice;  so  there  are,  in  consequence,  words  between  them  now 
and  then.  Unfortunately  for  her,  she  cannot  sulk — he  can. 

Once,  when  he  says  that  travel  is  extremely  pleasant  for  a 
bachelor,  but  an  infernal  nuisance  with  a  wife  and  her  maid,  she 
cries  half  the  night.  Her  greatest  misfortune  is  that  the  least 
word  oT  her  beloved  can  afflict  her  beyond  measure.  The 
thought  that  he  does  not  regard  her  as  an  unmixed  blessing  fills 
her  with  unbearable  pain.  Still  they  spend  a  great  many  pleas- 
ant and  happy  hours  in  Paris.  He  is  always  proud  of  her  beauty 
and  likes  to  be  seen  with  her.  He  is  not  one  of  those  men  who 
resent  others  admiring  and  coveting  his  possessions;  on  the  con- 
trary, it  is  agreeable-to  his  vanity.  He  might  indeed  be  furi- 
ously jealous,  if  he  thought  he  had  cause,  but  he  knows  too  well 
that  he  has  not. 

Mrs.  Fane  joins  them  presently,  and  her  brother  takes  the  op- 
portunity to  go  about  a  good  deal  alone,  and  Vanessa,  fond  as 
she  is  of  her  sister-in-law,  is  not  pleased  with  the  change  of  com- 
panionship. One  morning  at  breakfast  she  urges  Ravenhold  to 
accompany  them  on  some  expedition  which  they  contemplate, 
but  he  laughingly  declines.  Two  is  a  very  good  number,  he 
says:  three  would  spoil  it.  And,  besides,  it  would  not  amuse 
him.  Again  she  presses  him,  but  he  declines;  and  when,  even 
then,  she  will  not  accept  his  denial,  he  answers  her  *vith  some 
sharpness.  The  tears  come  into  her  eyes;  she  cannot  restrain 
them,  arid  leaves  the  room  abruptly. 

"  Gerard,"  says  Hermione,  "  I  think  you  are  rather  foolish." 

"  Do  you  ?"  he  answers,  almost  indifferently.     "  Why?" 

"  You  have  a  lovely  and  devoted  wife,  and  you  do  not  make  as 
much  of  her  as  you  ought." 

"My  dear  girl,"  replies  Ravenhold,  "one  cannot  always  be 
tied  to  a  woman's  petticoats.  Vanessa  is  unreasonable." 

"  There  was  a  time,"  observes  Hermione,  significantly,  "  when 
you  asked  nothing  better  than  always  to  be  tied  to  her  petti- 
coats." 


382  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOFED. 

"Oh,  that  was  different,"  he  says,  lightly. 

"  Yes,''  she  returns,  dryly,  "  I  am  afraid  it  was.  But  don't  i, 
get,  my  dear,  that  she  is*  exceedingly  lovely,  and  that,  if  you  get 
tired  of  her,  there  will  be  lots  of  men  read}'  to  adore  her.*' 

"  I  am  not  tired  of  her— not  the  least  bit  tired  of  her!'*  he  cries, 
flushing  a  little.  "Besides" — more  quietly — "there  is  no  fear 
of  her  looking  at  any  one  else." 

"  Not  just  yet,  perhaps,"  answers  his  sister.  "  But  very  often, 
when  a  woman  is  disappointed,  she  allows  herself  to  goon  being 

miserable  for  a  time — and  then " 

'Well,  and  then?" 

"  She  ends  by  consoling  herself,"  returns  Hermione,  quite  seri- 
ously. 

Ravenhold  laughs  gayly. 

"No  fear,  my  dear." 

But,  five  minutes  later,  he  goes  to  look  for  his  wife,  and  kisses 
her,  and  says  he  will  drive  with  them  in  the  afternoon. 

Hermione  thinks  fit  to  give  Vanessa  also  a  little  lecture  when 
they  are  alone. 

"  You  must  not  be  too  exacting  with  Gerard,  my  love,"  she 
pays,  assuming  a  playful  manner.  "He  was  always  a  shockingly 
spoilt  boy,  and  we  had  to  give  in  to  him  and  let  him  do  as  he 
liked.  And  then,  you  know,  men  are  not  like  us.  They  leave 
off  when  we  begin.  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  the  best  man  in 
the  world  cannot  stand  too  much  worship.  He  takes  to  giving 
himself  airs.  In  fact,  he  does  after  marriage  just  what  we  do 
before  it.  If  you  could  only,  my  love,  pretend  not  to  think  quite 
so  much  of  him:  not  to  want  to  have  him  always  with  you!" 

'•  I  dare  say  it  would  be  wiser,"  sighs  Vanessa,  "  but  how  can 
one?  And  why  should  a  man  change?  He  was  like  me  once — 
worse.  I  think/  He  could  not  bear  to  be  away  from  me  for 
live  minutes — he  said  he  could  never  know  a  happy  moment 
until  we  were  married  and  he  was  quite  sure  of  me." 

"Yes,"  says  Hermione,  pursing  up  her  lips,  "men  do  say* 
those  things,  I  believe.  Not  that  I  speak  from  personal  experi- 
ence. But,  niy  dear,  for  goodness7  sake,  if  you  want  to  be 
happy,  act  a  little  part.  Smile  when  he  goes  away,  and  smile 
when  he  conies  back,  and,  above  all  things,  never  reproach  him. 
Men  can't  stand  being  found  fault  with — they  never  think  they 
are  in  the  wrong." 

Hermione's  well-meant  little  lectures  are  not  without  their 
effect;  it  lasts  quite  forty-eight  hours,  during  which  time  she 
feels  several  sharp  pangs  of  envy  at  the  happiness  of  which  she 
is  witness. 

Ravenhold  takes  a  house  in  Mayfair  for  three  months  from 
Easter.  He  and  Vanessa  have  made  many  delightful  projects 
for  spending  their  first  season  together  there.  Both  are  fond  of 
London.  Now  it  would  seem  that  all  Vanessa's  most  ardent  as- 
pirations are  to  be  gratified.  Pier  position  in  society  is  no  longer 
doubtful — she  is  one  of  the  great  ladies;  she  has  a  handsome 
young  husband  whom  she  adores,  and  who  adores  her — she 
knows,  or  will  know,  every  one  worth  knowing.  It  will  be  hers 
no  longer  to  look  enviously  at  women  going  to  Court  intheir 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVE&  183 

plumes  and  jewels;  nor  to  watch  from  afar  the  groups  of  gay 
and  handsome  young  people  in  the  park  among  whom  there 
used  to  seem  sudh  a  delightful  freemasonry — their  honors  and 
joys  will  be  hers. 

And  yet — and  yet — with  strange  perversity,  Vanessa  has  said 
to  herself  with  a  sigh  more  than  once,  **  Oh,  if  instead  of  the  life 
that  is  before  me,  I  could  be  down  at  home  "  (her  own  home), 
"  with  only  Gerard— Gerard  as  he  was  last  summer!"  It  is  pos- 
sible that  the  misgivings  which  haunt  her  now  would  not  have 
entered  her  head,  had  not  Lady  Mildred  become  mixed  up  with 
their  lives.  She  was  in  the  same  set — they  met  at  every  turn 
and  corner;  she  would  be  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  them — no 
coldness  on  Lady  Ravenhold's  part  seemed  to  affect  or  disturb 
her.  And  then  Gerard  was  always  there  to  make  up  for  any 
lack  of  friendliness  on  his  wife's  part.  He  seemed  to  cling  par- 
ticularly to  this  friendship:  it  was  an  utterly,  entirely  different 
feeling  from  that  he  had  once  entertained  for  her — it  was  the 
friendliness  that  one  has  for  a  thoroughly  congenial  acquaint- 
ance of  long  standing — for  a  person  to  whom  one  can  talk  with- 
out reserve;  who  claims  nothing  of  one  and  yet  seems  always 
happy  to  be  in  one's  society. 

Never  was  any  woman  more  altered,  more  improved  than 
Milly,  Ravenhold  thinks.  She  who  used  to  be  so  exacting,  so 
easily  offended,  who  had  such  a  tremendous  temper!  Now  she 
is  always  the  same,  always  cheery,  smiling,  sympathetic,  what- 
ever he  wishes  her  to  be;  and,  with  all  that,  he  knows,  and  is 
pleased  to  know,  that  she  cares  for  him  as  much  as  ever  and  in 
the  same  way,  although  his  passion  has  subsided  into  a  purely 
platonic  feeling.  And  he  can  say  things  to  her  that  he  cannot 
say  to  any  one  else.  The  most  dangerous  woman  to  other  women 
is  generally  the  oner~to  whom  a  man  can  confide  in  this  unre- 
served manner,  unless  she  exercises  her  power  benevolently. 

Ravenhold  is  devoted  to  dancing;  Lady  Mildred  is  a  perfect 
dancer;  they  nearly  always  meet  at  the  same  houses.  He  likes 
his  wife  to  dance  and  be  surrounded  by  men ;  no  jealous  spasm 
ever  crosses  his  heart  when  he  sees  another  man's  arm  round  her 
waist.  But  to  her  it  is  purgatory  to  see  a  woman  in  his  arms, 
to  see  him  sitting  out  in  dimly-lighted  conservatories  with  one, 
bending  toward  her  and  looking  those  unutterable  things  which, 
after  all,  mean  nothing  and  are  only  a  trick  of  manner.  How 
gladly  would  she  compound  with  him  never  to  dance  again  if 
he  would  also  forego  dancing.  She  half  broaches  the  proposi- 
tion to  him  once,  and  he  laughs  it  to  scorn.  There  is  only  one 
woman,  however,  of  whom  she  is  earnestly,  terribly  afraid,  and 
that  is  Lady  Mildred.  Once  in  a  paroxysm  of  jealousy,  she 
told  Ravenhold  that  he  must  give  that  woman  up,  that  he  must 
choose  between  them,  and  his  answer  was  this: 

"Don't  be  a  fool!  I  have  told  you  fifty  times  that,  if  there 
ever  was  anything  between  us  (I  don't  say  there  was)  it  is  all 
over  long  ago.  Now  we  are  friends  srnply,  nothing  more.  I 
most  certainly  shall  not  give  her  up  for  a  ridiculous  caprice  on 
ycur  part  Tf  yOli  don't  want  to  quarrel  seriously 


184  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

will  say  no  more  about  it.  But,  whatever  you  do,  I  shall  not 
give  her  up." 

"Then  I  shall  cut  her,"  says  Vanessa,  passionately. 

"  You  may  do  as  you  please v  I  don't  care  a  d —  -"  he  answers, 
wrathfully.  "If  you  do,  I  shall  pay  her  all  the  more  attention, 
and  go  to  see  her  twice  as  often." 

"  Then  I  shall  leave  you,"  cries  Vanessa,  worked  up  to 
frenzy. 

"  All  right,"  he  replies,  coolly,  knowing  how  little  fear  there 
is  of  her  taking  such  a  step. 

This  quarrel,  like  its  predecessors,  is  made  up,  but  Ravenhold 
does  not  diminish  his  attentions  to  Lady  Mildred,  although  if 
possible  he  keeps  his  visits,  which  are  tolerably  frequent,  from 
Vanessa.  He  would  not  admit  for  an  instant  that  the  two 
women  were  rivals.  What  he  calls  his  "  love  "  is  for  Vanessa. 
Lady  Mildred  has  his  friendship. 

For  the  first  few  months  of  their  marriage  Ravenhold  and 
Vanessa,  if  circumstances  compelled  them  to  be  apart  for  a  few 
hours,  gave  each  other,  as  is  the  wont  of  lovers,  a  minute  ac- 
count of  how  the  time  had  been  spent;  but  for  some  two  or  three 
months  now  his  lordship  had  shown  himself  very  ill  disposed  to 
be  put  through  a  catechism  about  his  movements.  He  had  oc- 
casionally replied  with  considerable  petulance  to  his  wife's  cross- 
questioning,  and  had  retorted  that  he  made  no  inquiry  how  she 
amused  herself,  and  that  he  wished  to  have  equal  freedom.  This 
of  course  inspired  in  Vanessa's  jealous  heart  the  idea  that  his 
leisure  hours  were  spent  in  a  manner  of  which  he  knew  she 
would  not  approve. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Ravenhold  went  pretty  often  to  Lady  Mil- 
dred's house.  There  he  enjoyed  a  sense  of  perfect  freedom:  a 
thorough  immunity  from  reproach  and  fault-finding — every- 
thing he  said  and  did  was  right.  He  did  not  exactly  complain 
of  his  wife;  but,  now  and  then,  he  would  let  fall  an  innuendo 
that  his  life  was  not  altogether  a  bed  of  roses,  and  then  a  thrill 
of  joy  would  flit  through  his  listener's  heart.  She  would  begin 
by  pretending  to  make  excuses  for  Lady  Ravenhold — would  say 
that  no  doubt  her  jealousy  arose  from  love;  but  then  she  would 
hasten  to  append  a  rider. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  she  said,  with  a  little  sigh,  "that  if  one 
loved  a  man  perfectly,  the  first  thing  one  would  care  for  would, 
be  his  happiness,  and  one  would  not  allow  one's  self  to  worry 
him  or  make  scenes  to  vex  him.  A  woman  ought  to  under- 
stand that  a  man  cannot  always  be  with  her — he  must  have  his 
hours  of  liberty." 

"  Of  course,"  echoes  Ravenhold,  eagerly.  "  People  must  go 
their  own  way  sometimes.  When  do  I  ever  interfere  with  her 
or  insist  on  having  an  account  of  where  she  has  been  and  what 
she  has  done  ?  I  am  not  jealous  if  fifty  fellows  make  love  to 
her." 

"  I  must  say,"  observes  Lady  Mildred,  softly,  "  that  you  are  a 
wonderful  husband — a  far  better  one  than  I  ever  thought  you 
would  make." 

"  Ah,  you  didn't  understand  me,  then,"  he  says,  pensively. 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  185 

"No,"  she  answers,  with  the  ingenuous  air  of  one  w"ho 
frankly  confesses  an  error,  "  I  don't  think  I  did.  But,"  sighing, 
"  I  do  now." 

He  takes  her  hand  and  kisses  it.  .  The  gesture  does  not  proceed 
so  much  from  love  for  her  as  from  the  warm  and  soothing  sen- 
timent of  flattered  self-esteem.  He  likes  to  be  told  he  is  in  the 
right — he  believes  it  implicitly — he  does  not  think  there  is  such 
another  husband  in  London,  and  it  is  rather  hard  that  he  should 
not  be  properly  appreciated  in  the  right  quarter. 

Hermione  talks  to  him  in  a  very  different  strain.  She  always 
speaks  of  Vanessa's  beauty  and  devotion,  and  begs  him  not 
to  undervalue  them.  In  consequence  he  goes  much  less  fre- 
quently to  his  sister's  house  than  to  Lady  Mildred's,  and  when, 
he  does  says  very  little  about  his  domestic  affairs. 

Colonel  Dallas  is  a  great  deal  with  his  beautiful  new  niece. 
He  is  almost  as  much  her  companion  now  as  in  the  days  when 
she  was  Mrs.  Brandon  and  he  had  constituted  himself  her  escort. 

Ravenhold  generally  rode  in  the  morning — Vanessa  preferred 
to  walk.  She  liked  to  ride  in  the  country,  but  the  heat  and  glare 
and  confusion  of  the  Row  were  disagreeable  to  her.  Still,  if  she 
could  have  had  her  husband  with  her,  she  would  have  endured 
these  willingly  enough,  but  other  riders  were  sure  to  join  them 
and  deprive  her  of  his  companionship.  So  she  elected  to  walk 
or  sit  with  the  colonel.  The  lovely  Lady  Ravenhold  was  im- 
mensely admired — she  would  have  been  the  fashion  had  she 
chosen."  But  if  in  Brandon's  day  she  had  refused  even  to  make 
believe  to  flirt,  was  it  likely,  now  her  whole  heart  was  absorbed 
by  her  husband,  that  she  would  have  a  word  or  a  look  for  other 
men  more  than  courtesy  demanded?  And  men  get  tired  of  try- 
ing to  flirt  with  a  woman  from  whom  they  never  get  so  much  as  a 
glance  of  encouragement.  They  all  said  she  was  beautiful,  but 
they  could  not  possibly  indulge  in  any  great  enthusiasm  about  a 
woman  who  had  not  a  thought  for  any  man  save  her  husband. 
Still,  for  their  own  vanity's  sake,  they  liked  to  be  seen  talking 
to  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  London,  and  Vanessa  never  ran 
the  risk  of  seeming  neglected  when  she  appeared  in  public. 

She,  if  she  suffered  from  jealousy  or  disappointment,  did  not 
breathe  one  word  of  complaint,  and  the  colonel  was  far  too 
much  a  man  of  the  world  to  seem  to  notice  anything  that  she 
did  not  wish  remarked.  But  he  suffered  for  her  sake.  He  often 
wondered  at,  and  was  angry  with,  his  nephew  for  not  seeming 
sufficiently  to  value  a  pearl  of  such  price.  And  he  looked  with 
deepest  suspicion  and  disgust  on  the  new  rapprochement  be- 
tween him  and  Lady  Mildred,  whom,  in  his  thoughts,  he  called 
by  so  ugly  a  name  as  "  the  devil  incarnate." 

Lord  and  Lady  Ravenhold  had  never  been  separated  for 
twenty-four  hours  since  their  marriage.  When,  therefore,  her 
husband  informed  Vanessa  one  morning  at  breakfast  that  he 
had  just  received  an  invitation  to  fish  and  stay  the  night  down 
in  Hampshire,  and  intended  to  accept  it,  a  severe  pang  went  to 
her  heart,  and  she  felt  as  though  some  dire  calamity  had  be- 
fallen her.  The  tears  came  to  her  eyes,  her  lips  trembled  in  spite 
of  her. 


186  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVF1 

"  Miixt  you  stay  the  night  ?  Cannot  3^011  come  h-v-K-  by  a  Iat9 
train  ?" 

"  No,"  he  answers;  "  because  I  want  to  fish  all  the  next  <L;v, 
and  to  return  in  the  evening.  My  dear  child  " — impatientls  — 
44  don't  be  ridiculous!  Do  you  suppose  we  are  to  go  through 
the  remainder  of  our  lives  without  ever  spending  a  night  apart?" 

Vanessa  says  no  more.  If  he  wishes  to  leave  her;  if  it  is  no 
pain,  but  rather  a  pleasure  to  him  to  be  parted  from  her,  what 
is  there  left  to  say?  If  business  compelled  his  absence,  and  he 
went  with  reluctance,  it  would  be  different;  she  would  hate  him 
to  go  all  the  same,  but  the  pain  would  have  been  robbed  of  its 
worst  sting. 

Ravenhold  gets  out  his  fishing-tackle  and  departs  next  morn- 
ing with  joy.  He  kisses  her  with  the  exuberance  of  affection 
that  a  man  generally  exhibits  when  he  is  joyfull}-  leaving  his 
wife.  He  bids  her  heartily  to  enjoy  herself,  and  to  have'' a 
good  time  "  in  his  absence. 

As  soon  as  he  is  gone,  foolish  Vanessa,  feeling  a  terrible  sense 
of  bereavement  and  desolation,  proceeds  to  count  the  hour."* 
until  she  will  be  reunited  with  him.  She  has  cheerful  thoughts 
of  railway  accidents;  of  deaths  by  drowning.  The  colonel,  who 
comes  to  take  her  out,  does  his  very  best  to  cheer  and  enliven, 
her,  but  in  vain.  She  does  not  attempt  to  account  for  or  excuse 
her  melancholy;  but  that  would  be  needless  He  knows  the 
cause  well  enough,  though  he  refrains  from  even  seeming  to 
perceive  her  depression.  She  dines  alone.  After  dinner  she 
takes  a  book,  and  tries  to  read,  but  lier  mind  does  not  grasp  the 
sense  of  the  printed  page;  she  is  reading  about  Gerard  all  the 
time.  Presently  the  postman's  loud  knock  resounds  through  the 
house.  She  rouses  herself,  and  brushes  away  the  traitorous 
tears  from  her  eyes.  A  moment  later  the  servant  comes  in  with 
a  letter.  Slowly  and  mechanically  she  opens  it  and  reads.  At 
the  first  few  words  she  springs  to  a  sitting  posture.  She  reads 
to  the  end.  Then  she  pushes  her  hair  from  her  forehead  with  a 
wild,  affrighted  gesture,  and  falls  back  in  her  chair  half  fainting, 
white  and  cold  as  death. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THESE  are  the  contents  of  the  letter: 

"  You  think,  110  doubt,  because  you  have  gone  through  with 
the  marriage  ceremony  with  Lord  Ravenhold  that  you  are  his 
wife.  But  supposing  that  he  had  taken  part  in  the  same  cere- 
mony previously  with  another  woman,  who  is  still  alive,  you 
would  understand  at  once,  would  you  not  ?  that  you  have  no 
right  whatever  to  the  name  of  Lady  Ravenhold.  "it  is  I  who 
bear  that  title.  After  the  divorce  took  place,  I  went  on  my 
bended  knees  to  him,  I  entreated  him  to  marry  me.  I  dare  say 
he-has  told  you — indeed,  I  know  he  has  told  many  people  that 
he  never  cared  for  me.  That  is  false.  He  was,  or  seemed  to  be, 
as  devoted  to  me  as  ever  he  was  to  you.  Do  you  think,  if  he 
had  not  been,  I  should  have  sacrificed  everything  for  his  sake  ? 
It  is  quite  true  that  afterward  he  tried  to  get  rHi+  -*  itr- he  got 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  181 

flrea  of  me  as  he  does  of  every  woman — no  doubt  by  this  time 
he  is  tired  of  you  too.  I  made  him  marry  me,  and  we  went  to 
America  together.  After  a  little  time  he  began  to  reproach  me, 
and  to  say  that  I  had  cursed  his  life,  and  I  grew  so  miserable 
and  heart-broken  that  I  consented  to  conceal  our  marriage  and 
jo  be  treated  like  a  cast-off  mistress.  Ever  since  then  I  have 
loved  and  hated  him  by  turns.  And  now  I  say  to  myself,  '  Why 
should  he  be  happy  when  I  am  broken-hearted  V  So  I  have 
come  back  to  London  to  unmask  him,  and  to  let  the  world  know 
that  I  am  Lady  Ravenhold.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  but  I  owe  you 
nothing — you  have  taken  him  away  from  me — it  is  just  as  fair 
that  you  should  suffer  as  that  I  should.  And  no  doubt  he  is 
tired  of  you  by  now.  CLARA  RAVENHOLD." 

When  Vanessa  recovered  herself,  she  took  up  the  letter  and 
read  it  through,  every  word  of  it,  again.  She  felt  no  bitterness 
against  the  writer;  she  could  only  think  of  him.  He,  for  his  pas- 
sion's sake,  had  wantonly  wrecked  her  life — he  had  had  no  pity  for 
her;  had  not  thought  of  the  consequences  that  discovery  would 
bring  on  her.  And  yet  he  could  smile  and  be  gay— he  bore  no 
traces  of  his  awful  secret  in  his  face  or  manner — no  doubt  he 
fancied  himself  perfectly  secure. 

And  now  what  is  she  to  do?  She  has  henceforth  no  name,  no 
social  status — there  is  nothing  left  for  her  but  to  hide  herself  out 
of  the  world's  way — the  world  that  might  pretend  to  pity  her, 
but  would,  in  reality,  pass  by  on  the  other  side.  Her  duty  as  a 
virtuous  woman  is  to  leave  his  roof — to  separate  herself  from  him 
forever.  At  first  she  thinks  she  will  do  this — that,  to-morrow, 
she  will  go  down  home  and  never  see  him  more.  But,  as  the 
minutes  creep  on,  the  conviction  comes  to  her  that  there  are 
tasks  which  a  human  heart  can  impose  upon  itself  and  yet  be 
powerless  to  fulfill,  and  this  is  one  of  them.  Unless  he  bids  her 
go,  she  cannot  leave  him — she  already  forgives  him— if  he  has 
Binned;  if  he  has  drawn  her  into  sin,  it  was,  at  least,  for  love's 
sake  of  her.  No!  she  will  not  leave  him.  She  will  quit  London 
and  the  gay  world,  but  she  must  cling  to  him  or  die.  One  day, 
perchance,  he  will  forsake  her  as  he  forsook  that  other  unhappy 
woman,  and  then,  oh,  then,  perhaps,  a  merciful  God  will  surely 
take  pity  upon  her  and  let  her  die.  God!  But  will  He  have 
pity  upon  her  if  she  sins  wantonly  against  Him  ?  Will  He  not 
visit  her  with  still  more  terrible  punishments? 

The  clock  strikes  eleven.  She  locks  up  the  letter  that  has 
brought  this  blight  upon  her  life  and  goes  to  bed.  To  bed,  but 
not  to  sleep.  She  has  but  one  desire:  to  hear  from  Gerard's  lips 
if  it  is  true.  Fain  would  »he  believe  it  a  malicious  lie;  but  there 
seems  a  ring  of  truth  about  it— small  doubt  that  it  is  written  by 
one  who  knows  his  character  all  too  well. 

At  half  past  seven  she  rings  up  her  maid. .  Dalton  would  be 
much  displeased  at  this  incoii.siderateness  on  her  ladyship's  part, 
but  that  the  moment  she  sets  eyes  on  her  death-white  face  and 
haggard  eyes,  she  is  frightened,  and  feels  that  something  very 
serious  is  the  matter. 

"Oh,  dear,  my  lady,  how  ill  you  look!  Hadirt  I  better  send 
for  the  doctor  V" 


188  *7    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVEh. 

'"No,"  answers  Vanessa,  feeling  the  impossibility  of  account- 
ing to  any  one  for  the  state  of  her  mind.  "  Not  at  present,  at 
least.  I  want  to  send  a  telegram.  The  office  opens  at  eight,  I 
think.  Get  me  a  form,  and  tell  one  of  the  men  to  be  ready." 

Dalton  obeys.  She  will,  in  any  case,  have  the  satisfaction  of 
reading  the  telegram.  It  is  to  Lord  Ravenhold,  and  says: 

"  Come  to  me  without  fail  the  instant  you  get  this.  Telegraph 
that  you  are  coming." 

When  this  is  dispatched,  Vanessa  allows  Dalton  to  bring  her 
some  tea,  and  endeavors  to  possess  her  soul  in  patience.  Per- 
haps she  may  get  an  answer  in  an  hour,  certainly  in  two.  She 
busies  herself  in  making  plans.  When  she  has  seen  him,  if  it  is 
true,  she  will  leave  London  at  6nce  and  go  home.  But  what 
can  she  say  to  her  father  ?  She  cannot  tell  him  the  truth.  In 
his  capacity  as  a  clergyman  he  will  be  bound  to  try  to  separate 
her  from  Ravenhold.  But  she  tells  herself  that  it  is  not  likely 
he  will  ask  any  questions. 

Ten  o'clock  strikes,  eleven,  twelve,  and  so  the  awful  hours 
creep  on,  and  no  answering  message  comes  from  Ravenhold. 
Then  a  horrid  fear  takes  possession  of  her.  Perhaps  he  is  not  in 
Hampshire  at  all.  She  denies  herself  to  all  callers,  even  to  the 
colonel  and  Hermione,  who  both  come  to  visit  her— she  could 
not  meet  them. 

She  paces  up  and  down  the  room  distraught  with  nervous  ter- 
ror. Now  she  can  only  believe  the  worst.  If  he  has  received  it, 
he  has  read  the  riddle  of  her  urgent  telegram  and  is  afraid  to 
meet  her. 

The  thought  conies  to  her  over  and  over  again  that  is  wont  to 
smite  people  who  are  young  and  have  been  happy,  ' '  How  have 
I  deserved  this  awful  misery?  Oh,  God!  what  have  I  done  in 
my  short  life  that  I  should  suffer  such  agony  ?" 

Five  o'clock.  Worn  out  in  mind  and  body,  she  is  lying  on  the 
sofa.  Despair  has  overcome  her.  She  has  no  longer  any  hope. 
Suddenly  the  double  rap  of  the  telegraph  boy  makes  her  start  up. 
She  waits  breathless  until  the  orange-colored  envelope  is  brought 
in,  then  tears  it  open. 

"  Shall  be  home  by  six" 

She  lies  back  again.  At  all  events,  she  will  soon  know  now. 
And  she  worst  news  can  hardly  be  so  terrible  as  the  agony  of 
suspense.  Fifty-five  minutes  more.  Then  a  hansom  dashes  up 
to  the  door.  She  hears  Ravenhold's  eager  step  mounting  the 
stairs.  Now  he  is  in  the  room;  he  is  by  her  side  with  an  anxious 
face,  crying: 

'•  Great  heavens!  My  darling!  how  ill  you  look.  What  is  the 
matter?" 

A  deadly  trembling  seizes  her.  She  cannot  return  his  em- 
brace. She  gives  him  the  letter,  which  she  holds  crushed  in  her 
hand  ready  for  him;  and,  as  he  reads,  she  devours  his  face  with 
her  eyes.  She  sees  surprise,  curiosity  there,  but  not  guilt.  When 
he  has  finished,  he  crumples  it  up  in  his  hand,  and,  turning  t€ 
her,  exclaims  in  a  wondering  voice: 

44  Gracious  God!    And  you  believed  it!" 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  180 

No  answer  comes  from  her  pale  lips — the  revulsion  of  feeling 
is  too  great — she  has  swooned  dead  away. 

When  her  senses  return,  she  is  in  bed,  with  the  doctor  bending 
over  her,  and  Ravenhold  standing  at  the  foot,  with  an  anxious 
face.  She  is  puzzled  at  first  to  know  what  has  happened,  but 
by  and  by  her  memory  slowly  returns.  A  sense  of  ineffable 
happiness  steals  over  her;  he  is  hers — her  very  own.  When  the 
doctor  departs,  having  prescribed  perfect  quiet,  she  beckons  her 
darling  to  her.  He  is  very  tender  and  gentle;  holds  her  in  his 
arms,  strokes  her  hair,  kisses  her  broad  eyelids.  Happy  tears 
steal  down  her  cheeks;  but  she  is  too  weak  and  languid  to  say 
much.  But  presently  she  feels  so  much  better  that  she  insists 
on  going  down  to  dinner,  and  in  the  evening  she  is  well  enough 
to  talk  the  matter  over  with  him. 

*'  It  is  that  fiend  of  a  woman,  I  suppose,"  he  says.  "  She  must 
have  set  spies  upon  me,  or  how  could  she  know  that  I  was 
away?  I'll  turn  the  tables  upon  her,  and,  by  God!  if  I  catch  her 

I "  and  his  handsome  face  takes  a  more  vindictive  expression 

than  one  would  have  believed  it  capable  of .  "  But,"  altering 
his  tone  to  one  of  tender  reproach,  "  what  I  cannot  understand 
is  how  it  took  you  in.  You  must  have  a  nice  opinion  of  me  if 
you  think  I  could  be  such  a  blackguard  ?" 

Vanessa  laces  her  arms  round  his  broad  shoulders,  and  hides 
her  face  in  his  neck. 

"  If  it  had  been  true,"  she  whispers,  "I  should  have  stayed 
with  you  all  the  same,"  and  Ravenhold  catches  her  to  his  heart 
and  kisses  her  passionately. 

As  he  has  got  into  the  habit  of  telling  Lady  Mildred  everything 
— nearly  everything — he  goes  to  see  her  a  day  or  two  later  to  re- 
late this  exciting  story. 

Her  ladyship  appears  deeply  interested  in  the  recital  . 

"What  fiends  people  are!"  she  exclaims.  "  Could  one  believe 
such  wickedness  possible  ?" 

44  If  I  only  catch  her  at  any  more  of  her  tricks!"  cries  Raven- 
hold,  grinding  his  teeth. 

4  *  I  suppose  you  have  not  the  letter  with  you  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  have,"  taking  it  out  of  his  pocket-book.  "  It  is  not 
her  writing,  but  still  it  may  be  a  clew  some  day." 

"  It  is  rather  an  uneducated  hand,"  observes  Lady  Mildred, 
scrutinizing  it  carefully. 

"Yes.  By  Jove!  I  have  half  a  mind  to  offer  a  hundred 
pounds  reward  if  the  writer  will  come  forward." 

4<  Yes,"  says  Lady  Mildred,  "  I  would."  Then,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  * *  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  let 
it  rest.  You  don't  want  that  story  raked  up  again,  and  it  would 
not  look  very  well  for  you  to  prosecute  a  woman  who  ruined 
her  life  on  your  account.  People  might  say  nasty  things." 

Ravenhold  is  silent.  Certainly  there  is  something  in  Lady 
Mildred's  argument. 

"  She  had  better  not  try  it  on  again,"  he  says,  presently. 
4<  You've  no  idea  what  a  state  that  poor  child  was  in.  The  doctor 
said  the  effects  might  have  been  most  serious.  I  was  obliged  to 
tell  him  she  had  received  an  anonymous  letter,  though  of  course 


190  U7    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

I  did  not  hint  at  its  contents.  Poor  darling!  she  is  awfully  fond 
of  me!  there  is  no  doubt  about  that!  Do  you  know,  Hilly,"  with 
an  unusual  softness  in  his  eyes  and  voice,  "  she  confessed  to  me 
that  oven  if  it  had  been  true,  she  would  not  have  left  me." 

Lady  Mildred's  eyes  flash. 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  she  says,  impetuously,  "that  any  woman 
who  cared  for  a  man  would  leave  him  if  she  heard  that  he  had 
fifty  wives  ?" 

When  Lord  Ravenhold  has  departed,  she  sits  staring  in  front 
of  her,  with  sightless  eyes.  Ker  heart  is  bitter  within  her. 
There  has  evidently  been  a  rapprochement  between  the  pair  in 
consequence  of  this  affair. 

"  But  I  made  her  suffer,"  she  mutters  between  her  closed 
teeth.  "  Ah!  if  I  could  make  her  endure  half  the  pangs  that  she 
has  made  me  feel  day  and  night.  But  some  day!  some  day!" 

For  a  week  or  two  after  the  affair  of  the  letter  Ravenhold  be- 
haved with  the  greatest  affection  to  his  wife.  .He  drove  her  out; 
he  walked  with  her.  The  colonel's  services  were  scarcely  re- 
quired at  all.  But  Charles  Dallas  was  not  by  any  means  piqued, 
being  far  too  fond  of  Vanessa  not  to  rejoice  at  seeing  her  happy. 

Edith  Vaughan  had  returned  to  society,  proof  against  any 
man's  vows  or'protestations,  and  she  and  Lady  Ravenhold  were 
frequently  together.  One  clay  she  happened  to  remark  before 
her  grandfather,  that  she  was  afraid  poor  Vanessa  was  not  so 
happy  as  she  might  be.  and  that  it  was  a  great  shame  her  hus- 
band should  pay  so  much  attention  to  Lady  Mildred,  when  every 
one  knew  how  they  had  been  talked  about  in  former  days.  The 
baronet  pricked  up  his  ears,  and,  after  a  moment's  pause,  re- 
marked that  no  doubt  Lady  Ravenhold  was  a  monstrous  dull 
woman,  and,  like  most  handsome  people,  carried  all  her  wares  in 
her  windows. 

As  for  Mab,  she  had  become  the  most  decorous  of  matrons, 
and  was  quite  wrapt  up  in  Sir  Thomas  (she  has  left  off  calling  him 
Sir  Tummas  and  making  fun  of  him)  and  the  young  Sir 
Thomas.  Her  strictures  upon  married  women  who  flirt  were 
more  than  severe — they  were  crushing.  The  smallest  joke  of  a 
libertine  nature  drew  her  straight  brows  together,  and  turned 
down  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  Her  grandfather  said  she  was 

a  d d  bore  with  her  prim,  methodistical  ways.  As  for  Sir 

Thomas,  he  made  a  moral  Juggernaut  of  his  lady,  and  was  ever 
ready  to  prostrate  himself  beneath  her  chariot- wheels.  She 
was.  however,  merciful  as  she  was  strong.  Even  the  black 
pearl  had  not  been  removed.  She  declared  that  she  had  got 
used  to  it.  and  rather  liked  it  than  not.  It  gave  character  to  Sir 
Thomas'  face. 

July  has  come,  and  people  are  beginning  to  think  how  they 
can  spend  the  autumn  most  agreeably — the  autumn,  and  what 
yet  remains  of  summer. 

Ravenhold  talks  of  Goodwood,  Cowes.  and  Scotland.  Vanessa 
has  been  building  on  a  visit  to  her  father.  She  does  not  object 
to  Goodwood,  but  Cowes  has  no  temptation  for  her,  as  she  is  a 
most  indifferent  sailor.  Scotland  can  be  delayed  until  Septem- 
ber, and  she  thinks,  firstly,  that  it  is  her  duty  to  go  and  see  h«r 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  191 

father,  and,  secondly,  that  it  will  be  entrancingly  delightful  to 
have  her  darling  all  to  herself  once  more,  away  from  Lady  Mil- 
dred and  other  dangerous  and  evil-disposed  sirens. 

She  has  broached  her  wishes  to  her  lord,  and  has  been  pained 
to  see  by  the  expression  of  his  face  that  the  idea  does  not  fill 
him  \\ith  rapture.  He  has  not,  however,  at  present  said  any- 
thing to  lead  her  to  the  belief  that  he  does  not  intend  to  fall  in 
with  her  views. 

For  himself,  he  likes  excitement,  sport,  good  living:  not  one 
of  which  is  he  in  the  least  likely  to  g^et  down  at  the  quiet  Vicar- 
age: he  thinks  Vanessa  ought  to  see  at  once  that  there  is  noth- 
ing earthly  for  him  to  do  there. 

Filer  le  parfait  amour  !  No!  one  does  not  do  it  twice  wj£h 
the  same  woman!  and  he  has  had  his  fill  of  that  long  ago. 

He  says  confidently  to  Lady  Mildred  one  afternoon  when  he 
is  paying  her  his  usual  visit: 

••  I'm  afraid  there'll  be  the  devil  to  pay  with  my  wife  about 
our  autumn  plans.  She  wants  to  spend  August  with  her 
father." 

"  Well,"  returns  Lady  Mildred,  briskly,  "I  suppose  she  does 
not  contemplate  taking^you.  What  on  earth  would  there  be  for 
you  to  do  ?" 

"  That's  just  it,"  he  says,  with  mournful  perplexity.  "  If  she 
were  like  any  one  else,  she  wouldn't  expect  it.  She  would  go 
and  do  her  duty  visit,  and  give  me  a  little  holiday  meantime." 

"  But  of  course  she  will,"  remarks  Lady  Mildred,  cheerfully. 
"  She  will  have  her  father,  and  if  she  is  so  fond  of  you,  it  can't 
be  any  pleasure  to  her  to  know  you  are  being  bored  to  death." 

"One  would  think  not,"  and  Ravenhold  assumes  an  air  of 
profound  dejeetion.  "  There  is  nothing  earthly  to  do  there  but 
lounge  about  on  a  garden  seat — one  can't  get  the  papers  until  the 
second  day,  or  have  anything  but  mutton  or  pork,  or  those  ever- 
lasting fowls  for  dinner." 

He  forgets  his  delight  last  year  in  lounging  on  garden 
seats,  with  his  arm  round  his  adored  one.  As  for  news— what 
cared  he  for  the  doings  of  the  outer  world  ?  and  with  regard  to 
the  food,  it  was  all  ambrosia  to  him  so  long  as  his  darling  graced 
the  board. 

The  picture  seems  as  attractive  in  Vanessa's  eyes  as  ever;  but 
to  Ravenhold  it  only  suggests  weariness  and  disgust.  And  yet 
they  say  that  women  are  inconstant. 

"  Where  do  you  want  to  go?"  inquires  Lady  Mildred. 

"  After  Goodwood  I  want  to  go  to  Cowes.  Blank  has  asked 
me." 

"Oh,  do  go!"  entreats  Lady  Mildred.  "He  has  asked  me 
too." 

"  My  wife  is  such  a  bad  sailor— it  would  be  purgatory  to  her." 

"  But,  my  dear  friend,  are  you  not  to  go  on  the  sea  because  it 
makes  her  ill  ?  Are  you  to  eat,  drink,  and  avoid  all  that  she  does  ? 
I  don't  remember  that  stipulation  in  the  marriage  service." 

Ravenhold  utters  a  deep,  deep  sigh. 

44  There  is  no  doubt."  he  says,  "  that  marriage  .is  an  awful 
tie." 


192  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.^ 

44  Kct  where  people  are  sensible.'* 

"I  don't  think  women  ever  are  sensible,"  titters  his  lordship, 
lugubriously. 

44  Some  women  are  not.  How  can  a  woman  expect  to  keep  a 
man's  love  if  she  is  always  tugging  at  the  chain  and  selfishly 
wanting  him  to  do  everything  just  as  she  pleases  T 

Ravenhold  returns  home  determined  to  come  to  an  under- 
standing with  his  wife.  He  says  to  her  gayly,  although  in 
reality  he  feels  rather  nervous,  that  after  Good  wood,  he  will  tak« 
her  down  to  her  father  and  leave  her  there  for  a  bit.  He  has 
promised  Blank  to  spend  the  Cowes  week  on  his  yacht. 

The  thought  of  being  separated  from  her  beloved  for  a  week 
is  more  than  Vanessa  can  endure,  and  she  answers  impulsively: 

*'  I  will  go  too,  then,  if  you  must  go.  They  have  asked  me, 
and  I  would  rather  be  ill  than  away  from  you  all  that  immense 
time." 

Ravenhold  neither  looks  nor  feels  flattered. 

44  That  is  all  nonsense,"  he  says,  sharply.  "  What  is  the  use 
of  making  yourself  ill  and  wretched  for  nothing?  Besides.  I 
thought  you  were  so  keen  about  going  to  your  father  ?" 

44  So  I  am;  but  not  without  you,"  replies  Vanessa,  her  eyes 
brimming  over  with  tears. 

4 'Upon  my  soul!"  exclaims  Ravenhold,  4'  I  never  saw  such  a 
woman  as  you.  One  can't  discuss  anything  with  you  but  you 
fall  into  a  flood  of  tears." 

•'  I  never  used  to  cry,"  says  Vanessa,  with  a  little  sob;  "  not 
from  one  year's  end  to  another." 

"  Which,  I  suppose,"  he  retorts,  "  is  a  convincing  proof  that  I 
am  an  utter  brute,  and  treat  you  shamefully." 

"I  never  said  so — never  thought  so,"  sobs  poor  Vanessa, 
44  Why  did  you  ever  pretend  to  be  fond  of  me,  if  your  only 
anxiety  now  is  to  get  away  from  me  ?" 

1  My  good  child!"  cries  her  husband,  impatiently,  "it  seems 
to  me  as  though  you  have  no  reasoning  faculties.  I  should  be 
too  delighted  if  you  could  come  to  Cowes,  but  I  suppose  I  can't 
help  your  being  sea-sick.  It  seems  to  me  you  are  rather  selfish. 
You  want  to  drag  me  down  to  your  father's,  where  I  shall  be 
bored  to  death,  and  sha'n't  get  a  bit  of  decent  food  to  eat." 

"  You  were  happy  enough  last  year,"  says  Vanessa,  deeply 
affronted;  her  eyes  flashing. 

44  Perhaps  I  was.  The  circumstances  were  different  then.  On* 
doesn't  always  want  to  do  the  same  thing.  When  I  was  a  boy, 
I  was  devoted  to  jam-tarts  and  chocolate — now  I  have  had 
enough  of  them." 

"  Do  you  mean  by  that  you  have  had  enough  of  me?"  cries 
Vanessa,  wounded  to  the  quick. 

44  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  let  us  have  a  row!"  cries  Raven- 
holc£naking  for  the  door,  and  banging  it  after  him. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

VANESSA  is  dreadfully  unhappy  after  this  scene.    Her  mind  is 
torn   by  a  hundred   conflicting  feelings.     The  most  poignant 


/    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  193 

thought  is  that  her  husband  wishes  for,  looks  forward  to,  a 
temporary  separation  from  her.  He  has  accused  her  of  selfish- 
ness in  desiring  to  keep  him  with  her  or  to  accompany  him.  She 
asks  herself  if  her  love  is  really  selfish— if  she  is  actually  con- 
sulting her  own  feelings  only.  But  it  seems  to  her  that,  if  he 
cares  for  her,  it  ought  to  be  as  great  pain  to  him  to  be  parted 
from  her  as  for  her  to  be  parted  from  him.  Such,  however,  is 
evidently  not  the  case.  Shall  she  consent,  and,  if  possible,  with 
a  good  grace,  to  this  dreadful  separation?  She  makes  up  her 
mind  to  try. 

When  they  meet  again,  she  hangs  on  his  shoulder,  and,  letting 
fall  some  more  of  those  pearls  which  she  cannot  restrain,  she 
tells  him  that  she  consents  to  his  going  to  Cowes.  He  embraces 
her  joyfully,  asserting  that  it  will  be  quite  the  best  way.  But 
then,  feeling  exceedingly  bitter  at  his  evident  jubilance,  she 
cries: 

"But,  after  that,  you  must  not  leave  me  any  more.  Where 
you  go,  I  shall  go  with  you." 

So  Ravenhold  dares  not  for  the  present  say  anything  about 
going  to  Scotland  for  the  twelfth. 

It  is  arranged  that  he  shall  take  her  home,  stay  a  couple  of 
nights,  and  then  go  on  to  Cowes.  When  this  is  settled,  Lady 
Mildred,  meeting  Vanessa  at  dinner,  says  in  a  sweetly  condoling 
tone  to  her: 

"  What  a  thousand  Dities  that  you  are  a  bad  sailor!  We  shall 
be  such  a  cheery  party  on  the  Voyageuse.  But  I  dare  say  you 
will  be  happier  with  your  father,  after -all." 

The  blow  is  so  sudden  that,  for  a  moment,  Vanessa  can  find 
nothing  to  reply.  Then  she  murmurs  some  incoherent  words, 
and  turns  to  speak  to  another  woman,  and  Lady  Mildred's  heart 
leaps  with  malicious  delight. 

Lord  Ravenhold  has  not  been  two  minutes  in  the  brougham 
with  his  wife  on  the  way  home  from  this  dinner  before  he  knows 
that  something  is  wrong. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  he  asks. 

Her  hearts  beats  to  suffocation — she  cannot  all  at  once  find 
breath  to  accuse  him.  He  repeats  his  question. 

"  The  matter  is,"  she  says,  unable  to  prevent  the  passion  of 
her  heart  from  flowing  to  her  voice — "  the  matter  is  that  I  now 
know  why  you  wer.3  so  keen  about  your  yachting  trip,  and  so 
anxious  that  I  should  not  go  with  you." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asks  Ravenhold  extremely  discon- 
certed. 

"I  think  you  know,"  she  answers;  her  voice,  in  spite  of  her, 
taking  an  angrier  and  more  excited  tone.  "  That  woman  is  to 
be  there,  and  you  are  going  on  purpose  to  meet  her." 

"  You  seem  to  know  more  than  I  do,"  he  remarks,  trying  to 
speak  all  the  more  coolly  because  he  is  annoyed  and  uncom- 
fortable at  Vj&iessa  having  made  the  discovery.  * '  I  had  arranged 
to  go  before  I  knew  that  she  was  to  be  one  of  the  party.  Who 
told  you  that  she  was  going?"  he  proceeds,  imprudently. 

'•  She  told  me  herself,"  cries  Vanessa — "  told  me  triumphantly 
en  purpose  to  wound  me  " 


114  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

"  What  folly!"  cries  Ravenhold;  "what  ridiculous  ideas  you 
take  into  your  head!  Why,  in  Heaven's  name,  should  she  want 
to  wound  you  V 

"  Because  I  took  you  from  her,"  cries  Vanessa,  passionately. 
"  And  now  I  only  wish  she  had  you." 

This  is,  of  course,  a  wicked  falsehood;  but  even  the  most 
truthful  people  will  sometimes  make  mendacious  assertions 
ander  the  influence  of  passion. 

"  No,  you  don't,"  replies  Ravenhold,  trying  to  put  his  arm 
round  her.  But  she  makes  the  most  vigorous  resistance  to  his 
attempted  endearment. 

His  lordship  feels  very  angry  with  Lady  Mildred  for  having 
told  his  wife  of  their  projected  meeting,  and  does  not  fail  to  cafl 
on  her  next  day  to  express  his  vexation. 

She  meets  him  with  the  sweetest,  the  most  innocent  smfle. 

"  But,  my  dear  boy,"  she  says,  "  of  course  I  thought  she  knew 
it.  How  imprudent  of  you  not  to  tell  her!  She  was  bound  to 
hear  it  sooner  or  later,  and  then,  if  it  had  been  kept  a  secret,  she 
would  have  been  twrice  as  suspicious  and  angry." 

"  It's  infernally  unlucky,"  observes  Ravenhold,  gloomily;  "  but 
8he  has  taken  it  into  her  head  to  be  frightfully  jealous  of  you." 

"Of  me?"  says  Lady  Mildred,  feigning  surprise,  whilst  her 
heart  dances  with  delight.  "Surely  not  of  me,  when  she  had 
ample  proof  of  your  preference!" 

There  is  a  sarcastic  inflection  in  her  voice  which  is  not  lost 
upon  her  companion.  He  takes  her  hand,  and  his  eyes  grow 
softer. 

"  Perhaps,  after  all,"  she  says,  with  a  quivering  lip,  "  I  might 
have  made  you  as  happy  as  she  has  done." 

History  does  not  record  his  answer. 

Lady  Ravenhold,  for  the  first  time  since  she  acquired  that 
title,  maintains  a  cold  demeanor  to  her  lord.  Always  before, 
she  has  been  angry  for  five  minutes,  ten  have  found  her  hiding 
her  face  in  Gerard's  breast,  in  fifteen  she  has  been  smiling  up  at 
him.  But  now,  twenty-four,  thirty-six,  forty-eight  hours  still 
leave  her  cold,  unreconciled,  proof  against  his  endearments,  his 
efforts  after  reconciliation.  The  blow  is  such  a  bitter  one — she 
cannot  forget  the  anguish  she  will  have  to  suffer — she  thinks  it 
a  disgrace  before  all  the  world  that  her  husband  should  leave  her 
during  a  whole  week,  and  leave  her  for  a  woman  whose  lover 
every  one  knows  he  was  in  bygone  days. 

Vanessa  half  resolves  in  her  tortured  heart  to  bid  him  once  for 
all  choose  between  them:  half  resolves  to  teii  him  that  if  he 
goes  to  Cowes  and  Lady  Mildred,  he  shall  never  come  back  to 
her;  but  suppose  he  took  her  at  her  word?  She  knows  well 
enough  she  could  not  carry  out  her  threat;  that  before  a  week 
was  over  siie  would  go  to  him  on  her  knees  praying  to  be  taken 
back,  and  promising  him  utter  and  perfect  liberty  in  the  future. 
But  she  remains  cold  in  her  manner  to  him,  and  he  is  worried 
and  put  out,  because  he  is  still  in  love  with  her  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent, and  would  be  very  much  more  so  if  she  could  only  refrain 
Irom  letting  him  see  how  she  idolizes  him. 

It,  however,  makes  one  thing  certain — he  dares  not  give  the 


1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  195 

least  hint  of  leaving  her  again  to  go  to  Scotland,  but  makes  up 
his  mind  to  endure  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks  at  the  Vicarage. 

'* 1  shall  have  to  go  and  stagnate  in  that  dull  hole,"  he  says  to 
Lady  Mildred. 

**  I  think  you  are  very  weak,"  she  answers,  rather  contempt- 
uously. 

"  Hang  it  all!"  he  returns,  "  one  can't  keep  on  quarreling  with 
a  woman.  Especially  under  the  circumstances/' 

"Oh!"  utters  Lady  Mildred,  with  a  curl  of  her  lip.  "  I  was 
not  aware  there  were  any  circumstances.  No  doubt,"  with  in- 
creased scorn,  *•  you  will  soon  be  a  pattern  married  man!" 

When  Ravenhold  leaves  her,  Lady  Mildred  throws  herself 
back  in  her  chair  and  begins  to  think.  A  delightful  inspiration 
comes  to  her. 

The  next  evening  she  is  to  meet  Sir  Bertram  Orford  at  dinner 
at  the  house  of  an  intimate  friend.  She  writes  a  line  to  her  in- 
tending hostess: 

"  CHEBE  BELLE, — Arrange  to  let  Sir  Bertram  take  me  in  to 
dinner  to-morrow,  or,  if  that  is  not  possible,  put  him  on  my  other 
sidei  I  don't  want  to  marry  him.  Yours  ever,  MILLY." 

Her  friend,  willing  to  please  her,  defies  the  laws  of  precedency 
for  once,  and  gives  her  to  Sir  Bertram  as  a  partner,  rather  to  the 
surprise  of  some  of  the  guests.  If  it  were  a  young  man,  or  some 
particular  friend  of  Lady  Mildred's,  it  would  be  intelligible— still 

there  mu&t  be  a  motive,  for  it  is  quite  certain  that  Lady  H 

knows  what  is  right." 

Lady  Mildred  is  not  long  in  breaking  the  ice. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  says,  looking  into  the  old  baronet's  face 
with  a  sweet,  ingenuous  smile,  "  I  asked  Hilda  to  let  me  go  in 
with  you." 

Sir  Bertram  gives  his  politest  '*  smile  by  machinery,"  and 
says,  with  all  the  courtliness  of  the  past  generation: 

"Indeed,  Lady  Mildred?  I  feel  myself  excessively  honored 
and  flattered." 

Inwardly  he  is  wondering  to  himself  what  the  devil  the 
woman  would  be  at.  She  can  scarcely  want  to  marry  him, 
being  extremely  well  off,  and  having  one  or  two  eligible  suitors 
besides. 

"  You  took  me  in  to  dinner  once  before,"  proceeds  her  lady- 
ship. "  Do  you  remember?  I  do  " — with  a  fascinating  glance. 
'•  Your  conversation  was  so  amusing  and  interesting.  I  never 
enjoyed  a  dinner  more.  Most  men  of  the  present  day  are  so 
stupid,  cr  so  greedy,  they  won't  take  the  trouble  to  amuse  one." 

Sir  Bertram,  being  a  man,  is  by  no  means  impervious  to  flat- 
tery. The  suspicion  that  her  ladyship  has  designs  upon  him  be- 
gins to  fade  away.  She  is  a  sensible,  appreciative  woman — that 
is  all.  He  devotes  himself  to  keeping  up  the  good  opinion  sha 
has  formed  of  him,  and  the  flavor  of  his  caustic  wit  is  eminently 
agreeable  to  Lady  Mildred,  who  is  exceedingly  malicious  herself, 
and  enjoys  nothing  so  much  as  hearing  her  friends  turned  into 
ridicule,  or  tearing  their  reputation  into  shreds  herself. 

8b e  is  too  clever  to  reveal  her  designs  at  present,  bnt  bids  Sir 


196  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

Bertram  lunch  with  her  next  day,  and  lie  accepts  the  invitation 
with  effusion.  She  assures  him,  as  he  sits  beside  her  after  din- 
ner, that  it  is  long  since  she  passed  so  pleasant  an  evening.  She 
siiiiles  sweetly  at  him  when  he  squeezes  her  slim  fingers  with 
his  bony  ones. 

^Next  day  Sir  Bertram  keeps  his  rendezvous  with  military 
punctuality,  and  is  well  pleased  to  find  her  ladyship  alone.  The 
thought  again  shapes  itself  in  his  mind  that  she  may  have  mat- 
rimonial designs  upon  him.  The  idea  does  not  alarm  him. 

The  choicest  of  luncheons  is  provided  for  him,  an  attention 
which  he  thoroughly  appreciates.  When  it  is  over,  his  hostess 
offers  him  a  box  of  fine  cigars. 

"  My  dear  Lady  Mildred,"  he  exclaims,  with  old-fashioned  gal- 
lantry, "  you  are  the  pearl  of  hostesses.  But  I  have  never  per- 
mitted myself  to  fall  into  the  lax  manners  of  the  day.  Nothing 
would  induce  me  to  commit  such  an  act  of  desecration  in  your 
presence." 

And  although  her  ladyship  declares  that  she  likes  nothing  in 
the  world  so  much  as  the  smell  of  a  cigar,  he  is  proof  against 
her  persuasions. 

When  they  have  adjourned  to  her  boudoir,  Lady  Mildred  com- 
mences her  parallels. 

She  is  so  glad  the  London  season  will  soon  be  over.  She  loves 
the  sea.  The  Cuwes  week  is  always  to  her  the  pleasantest  in  the 
year;  but,  after  that,  where  shall  she  go  ?  At  Homburg,  Dinard, 
Tiouville,  one  meets  people  whom  one  is  sick  to  death  of  seeing 
in  London.  She  does  not  care  for  Scotland:  one  leaves  summer 
behind  when  one  crosses  the  border;  and  in  country-houses, 
most  country-houses,  there  is  a  repetition,  in  a  small  way,  of 
town  habits  and  customs,  but  these  are  even  more  genant^s  than 
in  London,  because  one  cannot  escape  from  them.  What  she 
lougs  for  is  repose,  perfect  repose  in  some  lovely  part  of  the 
country  where  she  could  wander  about — a  charming  old  garden, 
with  a  book,  or  sometimes  a  congenial  spirit,  or  perhaps  her 
own  thoughts  for  company. 

Sir  Bertram's  intelligence  is  remarkably  quick.  He  under- 
stands in  a  moment  that  her  ladyship  wishes  to  be  invited  to  his 
country-seat. 

"Ah,  dear  Lady  Mildred!"  he  answers  with  empressement, 
"  rny  little  place  is  just  the  rural  paradise  you  descrile,  though 
without  the  congenial  spirit,  I  fear. 

"  I  cannot  allow  that,"  says  her  ladyship,  softly. 

"  But  that  I  dare  not  run  the  risk  of  afflicting  you  with  the 
most  terrible  ennui,  how  charmed  I  should  be  to  play  host  to  so 
delightful  a  guest!" 

"  I  wish  you  would  ask  me,"  says  Lady  Mildred.  "There  is 
nothing,  nothing  in  the  world  I  should  like  so  much." 

"  And  suppose  you  died  of  ennui  F" 

"  You  would  bury  me  in  your  churchyard,  and  put  up  a 
monument  to  me,  with  the  inscription: 

44  *  The  victim  of  too  much  happiness/  r 
"  May  I  positively  believe  that  you  axe  not  jesting — that  you 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  197 

will  spend  a  few  days— I  wish  I  dare  my  months — at  the 
Hall?'f 

"  I  will  go  to  you  straight  from  Cowes,  if  you  will  have  me." 

"  If!"  cries  Sir  Bertram,  gallantly.  "  And  now,  whom  shall  I 
ask  to  meet  you  ?" 

"  No  one,  no  one,  no  one  at  all!"  cries  Lady  Mildred.  "  That 
would  spoil  everything."  ^ 

"  But  consider,  my  dear  lady,  there  will  be  only  myself,  my 
daughter,  and  her  daughter;  both  excellent  women  in  their  way, 
but  dulltf©  a  degree.  I  do  not  want  to  frighten  you,  but  I  should 
forever  lament  your  suffering  a  desillusion  in  my  house.  Come! 
name  some  one  at  least  whom  I  may  invite  to  meet  you." 

"  No;  I  will  not  have  a  single  person  except  yourselves^"  cries 
Lady  Mildred,  with  pretty  resolution.  "Besides,  you  know,  if 
the  worst  you  anticipate  happened,  the  Ravenholds  will  be  at  the 
Vicarage." 

In  one  instant  Sir  Bertram  reads  the  cards  in  her  ladyship's 
hand.  A  curious  effect  follows  this  clairvoyance.  He  feels  a 
sense  of  wounded  vanity  mingled  with  malicious  pleasure. 
But  he  does  not  betray  himself  by  so  much  as  the  wink  of  an 
eyelash. 

"  Ah!  true,"  he  remarks.  "Lady  Ravenhpld  will  not,  I  fear, 
contribute  much  to  your  amusement.  She  is  a  monstrous  dull 
woman,  though  handsome;  but  Ravenhold  is  a  capital  fellow  and 
excellent  company." 

"  What  a  judge  of  character  you  are,  Sir  Bertram!"  exclaims 
Lady  Mildred,  with  a  radiant  expression  of  face,  "  That  is  pre- 
cisely the  estimate  I  have  formed  of  the  pair." 

"  Then,"  says  the  baronet,  "we  must  try  to  see  as  much  of 
Ravenhold,  and  as  little  of  her  ladyship,  as  possible." 

Shortly  afterward  he  departs,  and  Lady  Mildred  hugs  her  de- 
light to  her  breast,  and  pays  her  own  tact  and  cleverness  a 
thousand  compliments.  She  does  not  for  one  instant  guess  that 
Sir  Bertram  has  seen  le  dessous  des  cartes,  and  is  playing  into 
her  hands  for  his  own  purposes. 

There  is  a  sardonic  grin  on  the  old  man's  lips  as  he  walks  away 
from  her  ladyship's  house.  He  is  about  to  have  his  dearest  pas- 
sion, revenge,  gratified.  His  bitterness  against  Vanessa  has  in- 
creased with  her  good  fortune;  he  cherishes  a  malignant  hatred 
of  her — any  weapon  that  can  wound  her  is  precious  to  him.  He 
knows  all  about  the  former  history  of  Ravenhold  and  Lady  Mil- 
dred. He  has  met  them  in  society,  and  has  not  failed  to  observe 
that  the  lady's  attachment  has  not  diminished,  and  that  Raven- 
hold  seems  very  kindly  disposed  to  her  in  return. 

He  feels  no  displeasure  against  Lady  Mildred  for  having  made 
a  cat's-paw  of  him.  All  women  are  arch  plotters,  and  false  as 
hades.  He  will  joyfully  help  her  pluck  her  chestnuts  from  the 
fire;  and  there  seems  little  chance  of  his  burning  his  own 
fingers. 

Lady  Mildred  does  not,  for  the  present,  deem  it  advisable  to 
say  one  word  to  Ravenhold  about  her  invitation.  She  thinks  it 
quite  probable  that  he  might  set  his  face  against  it,  as  being 
sure  to  cause  a  scene  with  his  wife,  whose  anger  he  is  ^far  from 


JS>8  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

desiring  to  arouse,  and  Lady  Mildred  knows  very  well  that  her 
power  over  him  is  as  yet  by  no  means  as  strong  as  Vanessa's, 
and  that,  if  it  caRie  to  choosing  between  them,  it  would  be  she 
<vho  would  go  to  the  wall.  His  own  pri'de  and  obstinacy,  and 
his  wife's  reproaches,  will  in  time  be  much  more  effective  in 
alienating  the  pair  t-lian  any  love  he  may  feel  for  her.  A  week 
at  Cowes  with  him;  a  fortnight  in  the  country,  when  he  will  be 
8U!i3  to  take  refuge  in  her  and  at  the  Hall  from  the  intolerable 
dullness  of  the  Vicarage,  and  she  expects  great  and  most  satis- 
factory results.  If  Lady  Ravenhold  makes  jealous  scenes,  as  of 
course  she  will.  Lad}*  Mildred'^  designs  will  be  enormously  bene- 
fited. If  a  man  is  forbidden  to  see  a  woman,  he  straightway 
desires  her  society,  even  if  he  has  not  thought  very  much  about 
her  before. 

Lady  Mildred  has  no  religion  nor  principle.  Long  ago  the 
voice  of  her  conscience  has  ceased  to  speak.  She  does  not  be- 
lieve in  a  future  state;  neither  love  nor  fear  of  God  influence 
her  actions. 

She  hates  Vanessa  with  all  the  energy  of  her  nature.  She  has 
distorted  her  in  her  thoughts  into  a  scheming,  unprincipled 
woman  like  herself;  a  woman  who  by  wiles  has  seduced  her 
lover  a  vay  from  her. 

Was  not  Ravenhold  her  (Lady  Mildred's)  devoted  slave  unti\ 
this  fair-faced  woman,  whose  beauty  she  loathes,  yet  cannot 
deny,  came  and  coaxed  him  from  her?  When  her  husband 
died,  and  by  every  sense  of  right  and  fairness  Ravenhold  should 
have  married  her,  did  not  this  hateful,  intriguing  wretch  step 
in  and  separate  them  again  ?  Did  she  deserve  pity  at  her  hands  ? 
No.  it  should  be  war  a  Toutrance.  If  she  could  make  her 
wretched;  if  she  could  alienate  her  husband's  love  from  her,  she 
would  take  advantage  of  every  weapon  that  chance  or  skill 
placed  in  her  way.  It  was  burnt  in  on  her  brain  that  Vanessa 
)iad  willfully,  wantonly  wronged  her,  and  she  longed  madly  for 
revenge.  And  she  believed  firmly  in  her  heart  of  hearts  that  it 
would  be  granted  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE  day  which  Vanessa  dreaded  intolerably  was  approaching 
— the  day  of  her  separation  from  her  beloved  one.  Long  ago 
she  had  abandoned  her  cold  demeanor  toward  him,  being  in- 
capable of  remaining  estranged,  but  she  never  forgot  for  a  mo- 
ment the  sword  which  hung  suspended  over  her  head.  One 
night  she  had  indeed  gone  on  her  knees  to  him,  had  thrown  her 
beautiful  arms  round  him,  and  sobbed  her  heart  out,  entreating 
him  not  to  leave  her.  It  would  kill  her,  she  cried,  and  she  felt 
as  if  she  were  prophesying  a  truth.  Ravenhoid  wavered.  He 
kissed,  and  soothed,  and  consoled  her.  He  would  not  promise, 
but  he  was  half  resolved  to  give  up  his  trip.  He  went  next 
morning  to  Lady  Mildred. 

44  Upon  my  soul!"  he  said,  with  a  harassed  air,  "  I  don't  think 
I  ought  to  leave  my  wife;  she  seems  so  awfully  cut  up  at  tb« 
ibought!" 


LIVED    AND    LOVED.  199 

The  blood  flies  like  fire  through  Lady  Mildred's  vein?  She 
longs  passionately  to  mock  and  deride  him;  to  laugh  him  to 
scorn.  It  requires  all  the  strength  of  will  she  possesses  to  keep 
her  voice  calm. 

44  You  see,"  she  says,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  this  is  your 
first  struggle.  It  depends  on  who  wins  this  who  will  be  master 
for  the  rest  of  your  lives.  If  you  are  not  firm  now,  y©u  may 
throw  up  all  your  chances  of  peace  or  pleasure  in  the  future.  A 
woman  has  such  a  pull  over  a  man  in  being  able  to  cry  and  have 
hysterics.  A  man  feels  a  brute,  whilst  she  is  all  the  time  laugh- 
ing in  her  sleeve." 

Ravenhold  looks  out  of  the  window  with  a  gloomy  brow,  but 
her  words  carry  conviction  with  them;  he  feels  that  if  he  is  ever 
to  enjoy  freedom,  he  must  make  a  stand  for  it  now. 

"  Good-bye,  Milly,"  he  says,  taking  her  hand.  "  I  wish  to  God 
I  had  never  promised  to  go!" 

And  he  departs  with  a  melancholy  air,  leaving  a  thorn  behind 
him  in  the  breast  of  Lady  Mildred.  "  She  is  by  no  means  sure  of 
him  even  now.  After  luncheon  Ravenhold  says  to  his  wife: 

"  My  dear  child,  I  don't  really  see  how  I  can  get  out  of  this 
party.  You  know  I  hate  to  do  anything  to  vex  you,  but  I 
think,  having  promised,  I  ought  to  go.  It  won't  be  for  long, 
darling." 

Suddenly  an  intuition  leaps  to  Vanessa's  brain.  She  looks  up 
and  fixes  her  eyes  on  his. 

"  Have  you  seen  Lady  Mildred  this  morning?"  she  asks  in  a 
very  calm,  quiet  voice. 

Ravenhold  is  taken  unawares — he  grows  crimson  and  horribly 
confused.  lie  cannot  deny  it — perhaps,  by  some  means  or  other, 
sHe  is  aware  of  his  visit. 

44  Yes,  I  have,''  lie  answers,  a  shade  defiantly.  44  I  don't  quite 
see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it." 

4t  Do  you  not  ?  I  do,"  she  replies,  and  this  time  there  is  a  burn- 
ing scorn  in  her  voice.  But  her  heart  turns  deathly  cold.  After 
all  his  vows  of  love,  after  all  his  passion,  which  seemed  so  real, 
this  woman  has  more  power  over  him  than  she.  She  does  not 
f>ay  one  other  word— she  gives  up — she  knows  herself  vanquished, 
defeated.  But  when  Gerard  approaches  her,  she  shudders  vio- 
lently and  puts  up  her  hands  to  ward  him  off. 

He  goes  out  of  the  house,  saying  to  himself  that  marriage  is 
an  accursed  institution,  and  that  none  but  fools  bind  themselves 
with  its  hea.vy  and  needless  shackles.  His  only  consolation,  and 
that  is  a  very  mixed  one,  is  that  he  has  asserted  his  independ- 
ence: but  at  what  a  cost!  He  is  pretty  sure  this  will  mot  be  the 
end  of  the  warfare — his  "advantage  is  only  a  temporary  one? 
which  he  may  have  more  occasion  to  regret  than  a  defeat. 

If  Vanessa  were  a  woman  of  the  world,  if  she  were  capable  of 
acting  a  part,  she  would  now  put  on  a  cheerful  air,  as  though 
his  going  away  wei*e  a  matter  of  complete  indifference  to  her, 
and  she  would  single  out  some  good-looking  young  man  of  her 
acquaintance  and  embark  on  a  slight  flirtation  with  him.  This 
would  speedily  bring  Ravenhold  to  his  senses,  and  be  more 
effective  than  all  the  tears  and  reproaches  in  the  worlf' 


200  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

Vanessa  is  only  a  loving  and  tender-hearted  woman,  incapable 
of  pretending  anything,  or  of  concealing  her  immense  love  for 
her  husband.  He  behaves  with  the  greatest  attention  and  affec- 
tion to  her  during  the  few  days  that  intervene  between  their 
parting,  but  all  the  time  he  has  a  sense  of  guilt  that  makes  him 
uncomfortable  and  annoys  him  exceedingly.  He  blames  Lady 
Mildred  for  persuading  him  to  go — he  blames  Vanessa  much 
more  for  not  being  like  other  women. 

He  accompanies  her  down  to  the  Vicarage,  and  stays  there  two 
nights — is  most  cordial  to  his  father-in-law  and*  to  Susan,  and 
extremely  affectionate  to  Vanessa.  But  that  one  dull  day  there 
with  nothing  to  do  makes  him  rejoice  heartily  that  he  had  re- 
mained firm  about  the  yachting-party.  Vanessa,  when  she 
hangs  on  his  neck  at  parting,  cannot  sulk  or  reproach — an  awful 
feeling  haunts  her  that  they  may  never  meet  again — how,  then, 
can  she  part  from  him  in  anger  ? 

He  is  in  his  gayest  mood;  bids  her  cheer  up  and  enjoy  the 
society  of  her  father  and  Susan,  interest  herself  in  her  garden, 
and  the  pigs  and  chickens,  and  comports  himself  with  the  tact 
and  considerateness  generally  employed  by  Theseus  bound  on  a 
pleasure  trip  leaving  his  Ariadne  on  the  rock. 

He  is  gone.  She  has  received  his  last  embrace;  she  has 
watched  his  handsome,  smiling  face  diminish  in  the  distance 
as  the  carriage  drives  off,  has  caught  the  last  wave  of  his  hand 
as  it  turned  the  corner.  And  then  a  blank,  a  sense  of  desolation 
creeps  over  her  such  as  she  ha&  never  known  before;  not  even 
when  Brandon  died.  But,  oh!  she  feels  she  could  bear  this 
parting  with  a  light  heart  if  he  had  not  gone  to  the  woman  who 
is  her  rival;  who  hates  her  \vith  a  deadly  hatred,  and  will  leave 
nothing  on  earth  untried  to  wrest  her  husband's  love  from  her. 
And  he  had  gone  gladly— nay!  why  else  should  he  have  gone  at 
all  ?  his  whole  face  was  bright  with  pleasure  and  expectancy. 
And  yet  this  time  last  year,  what  was  there  in  this  world  that 
could  have  tempted  him  from  her  side  ?  And,  like  all  women, 
she  failed  to  remember  that  with  men  the  invariable  sequence  to 
passion  is  satiety ;  that  the  experience  of  most  of  her  sisters  is 
the  same;  but  imagines  that  her  own  case  is  exceptional  and 
that  it  is  some  most  unfortunate  fault  or  deficiency  in  herself 
that  has  caused  the  waning  of  his  adoration. 

Oh,  wise  Spartans!  who,  I  have  read,  only  permitted  their 
young  men  to  visit  their  wives  secretly  and  by  stealth;  what 
adoring  and  faithful  husbands  must  their  system  have  prod  need! 
There  is  no  doubt  that  the  British  nation  least  of  all  understands 
the  economy  of  the  affections.  When  the  last  sound  of  Raven- 
hold's  chariot  wheels  has  died  away,  Vanessa  hies  her  with  fleet 
steps  to  her  chamber  to  enjoy  the  one  solace  of  a  grieveS  woman. 
She  cannot  curse  or  smoke,  but  she  can  cry.  And  Vanessa,  who 
in  her  girlhood  might  certainly  have  counted  her  fits  of  crying  on 
one  hand,  sobs  and  weeps  until  her  lovely  eyes  are  drowned  and 
her  eyelids  swollen  to  twice  their  natural  size.  An  hour  later 
Susan,  uneasy  at  her  long  seclusion,  comes  softly  in  without 
knocking,  and  finds  her  beautiful  young  mistress  sitting  on  the 


I^HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  301 

floor,  her  head  resting  against  the  bed,  and  all  her  frame  con- 
vulsell  with  agony. 

The  faithful  old  servant's  eyes  fill  with  tears  in  a  minute. 

"  Oli,  my  dear,  dear  young  lady,"  she  cries,  stooping  over  her, 
and  stroking  her  hair,  "  don't  you  take  on  like  that!  His  lord- 
ship's only  gone  for  a  little  time — not  but  what  I  think  he  didn't 
ought  to  have  gone  and  left  you." 

The  last  words  act  like  a  tonic  on  Vanessa.  No  woman  who 
adores  her  husband  will  allow  even  to  her  best  friend  that  he  can 
do  wrong.  She  may  reproach  him  to  his  face  in  private  in  no 
measured  terms,  but  be  quite  sure  that  she  will  permit  no  one  else 
to  speak  a  word  to  his  detraction,  nor  will  she  herself  utter  a 
complaint  against  him. 

She  rises  from  the  floor,  checks  her  sobs,  and  says,  in  a  decided 
voice: 

"  No,  no—  hs  is  quite  right  to  go.  It  is  foolish  of  me.  I 
am  only  a  little  nervous  a,nd  afraid  of  something  happening  to 
him." 

"  Why,  bless  you,  my  deary!"  cries  Susan,  only  anxious  to 
comfort  her  darling,  "  what  should  happen  ?" 

"He  might  be  drowned,"  says  Vanessa,  and  at  this  awful 
thought  her  tears  begin  to  flow  afresh. 

"  Now  don't  you  think  of  that!"  entreats  her  nurse.  "  Isn't  his 
lordship  as  much  under  the  A'mighty's  eye  on  the  hpcean  as  well 
as  if  he  was  here  ?  What  is  to  be  will  be!"  she  continues,  uncon- 
sciously imbued  with  the  sfTirit  of  fatalism. 

"  But  suppose  it  is  his  fate  to  be  drowned!"  cries  Vanessa,  and 
Susan  finds  herself  unable  to  continue  the  argument.  So  she 
takes  refuge  in  telling  her  ladyship  that  she  must  not  give  way, 
as  it  is  so  bard  for  her,  especially  now. 

Under  Susan's  persuasion,  Vanessa  bathes  her  eyes  with  cold 
water  and  allows  her  hair  to  be  smoothed.  She  had  not  brought 
her  maid,  reflecting  that  that  young  lady  would  cause  em- 
barrassment to  Susan  by  her  grandeur,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
possibility  of  her  declining  to  dine  in  a  kitchen  in  company 
with  Susan's  handmaid.  And  Susan  would  be  dreadfully  hurt 
if  she  were  not  permitted  to  wait  hand  and  foot  upon  her  young 
lady. 

Vanessa  presently  takes  her  way  to  the  rose-bower,  which  has 
seen  so  many  episodes  in  her,  of  'late  years,  eventful  life.  She 
sits  there  with  listless  hands  and  heavy  eyelids  looking  out  at  the 
bright  sunshine,  the  blue  sky,  the  gay-hued  flower-beds.  How 
often  during  the  last  six  months  has  she  thought  of  this  fair  spot; 
thought  of  it  as  a  paradise,  consecrated  to  the  memory  of  love 
and  happiness!  It  was  an  enchanted  garden  which  would  bring 
her  blissful  dreams  the  moment  she  set  foot  in  it.  But  how  is 
this  ?  To-day  it  seems  the  dullest  spot  on  earth — the  scene  be- 
fore her  is  the  acme  of  dreariness  and  desolation.  Ah!  it  is  not 
the  place!  The  loveliest  spot  on  earth  is  but  a  desert  when, 
having  lived  there  once  with  our  dearest,  we  revisit  it  without 
him! 

Vanessa  finds  it  impossible  to  remain  there;  her  heart  becomes 
*"^  leadjji  b_pr  j^reast;  she  has  a  wild  thought  of.  going  off  to 


£02  T    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVE1*. 

Cowes  and  stopping  at  the  hotel,  or  some  where  within  the 
reach  of  Gerard.  When  she  returns  to  the  house,  Susan  aays, 
cheerfully: 

'•  I've  got  a  bit  of  news  for  you,  my  lady — I  know  you'll  be 
pleased." 

Vanessa's  eyes  light  up.  It  must  be  something  about  Raven- 
hold — what  other  news  could  seem  to  her  good  in  the  very 
smaMest  degree  ? 

"  Miss  Vaughan  is  coming  to  the  Hall  to-day.  Miss  Vaughan 
and  Mrs.  Vaughan  and  Sir  Bertram." 

A  sense  of  disappointment  steals  over  Vanessa;  but,  after  a 
moment,  she  thinks  it  will  be  nice  to  have  Edith — anything  id 
better  than  this  dreadful  isolation. 

That  very  evening  a  note  comes  from  Edith  begging  her  to  go 
up  and  e,pend  the  next  day  at  the  Hall,  and  to  stay  to  dinner, 
when  Sir  Bertram  hopes  Mr.  Wentworth  will  join  them.  Lady 
Ravenhold  writes  a  note  of  acceptance,  and,  when  she  and  Edith 
meet,  there  is  a  greater  show  and  feeling  of  affection  between 
them  than  there  has  been  for  a  long  time.  A  woman  in  the 
early  days  of  her  marriage  with  a  man  she  loves  is  entirely  in- 
dependent of  her  female  friends.  Edith,  with  no  such  rival  to 
Vanessa,  has  remained  unaltered,  and  is  rejoiced  at  the  new 
rapprochement.  f 

They  wander  about  the  grounds  together  as  of  yore— they  drive 
in  the  cool  of  the  afternoon;  just  before  dinner,  Vanessa  sees  Sir 
Bertram  for  the  first  time. 

He  is  delightful,  courteous,  gallant— the  hinges  of  his  smile 
extend  to  their  utmost  width.  Edith  has  an  indefinable  dread 
that  he  is  meditating  some  atrocity.  And  it  is  not  long  before 
she  becomes  aware  of  the  nature  of  it.  They  are  in  the  middle 
of  dinner.  The  squire  has  been  genial  to  a  degree;  the  vicar  is 
present;  the  servants  are  in  the  room. 

"  You  will  find  it  a  little  dull  here  just  at  present,"  he  says, 
addressing  Lady  Ravenhold  with  great  suavity,  and  fixing  his 
eyes  on  her  face;  "but  next  week,  I  trust,  things  will  look 
brighter.  You  will  have  your  husband  back — how  you  must 
miss  him!  and  'pon  my  life,  how  he  must  miss  you — and  we  are 
expecting  a  very  bright,  charming  lady  here— a  friend  of  yours 
and  his — Lady  Mildred  Belair. " 

For  a  few  moments  after  this  speech  the  squire  experiences  a 
sensation  of  positive  ecstasy — every  line  of  Vanessa's  face  ex- 
presses her  inward  agony,  She  becomes  deathly  white — an 
awful  sickness  seizes  her — she  wonders  if  she  can  get  out  of  the 
room  without  falling  prone  on  the  floor,  After  a  few  moments 
she  recovers  herself,  and  then  she  looks  across  at  Edith  with  an 
Et  tu,  Bi^ute  f  expression. 

Edith  is  crimson — horror  and  indignation  are  in  her  face — it  is 
evident  that  she  too  hears  the  news  for  the  first  time.  Mrs. 
Vaughan  looks  uncomfortable;  the  vicar,  lost  in  thought  and 
never  having  heard  Lady  Mildred's  name,  eats  his  dinner  peace- 
fully, undisturbed  by  emotion  of  any  kind. 

The  servants  look  like  automatons,  and  are  devoured  with  a 
burning  curiosity  to  k**™  *5  ^i,at's  Up.» 


K    LIVED    AND     WVJW.  205 

Ya'nessa  does  not  eat  one  other  morsel.  In  the  first  place,  she 
SB  incapable  of  swallowing;  in  the  second,  she  resolves  never, 
never  to  touch  bread  and  salt  again  in  the  house  of  this  cruel, 
malignant  enemy.  As  a  rule,  a  proud  woman  can  master  her 
feelings,  but  there  are  some  blows  so  agonizing  as  to  break  down 
the  proudest  spirit. 

She  does  not  even  attempt  to  talk  to  the  squire  after  this.  She 
replies  by  monosyllables  to  any  remark  he  may  nxike;  she  will 
not  touch  one  drop  of  wine  or  even  water  though  her  tongue 
aeems  to  cleave  to  the  roof  of  her  mouth,  nor  so  much  as  one 
grape.  Never  once  does  she  raise  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

4'  What  a  confounded  fool  she  is  to  betray  herself!"  says  the 
squire  to  himself,  and  he  redoubles  his  attentions  to  her  for  the 
sheer  sake  of  giving  her  pain. 

Mrs.  Vaughan  does  her  utmost  to  make  conversation  with  the 
vicar,  so  ominous  is  the  hush  that  has  fallen  on  the  party — as  for 
Edith,  she  is  as  voiceless  and  deprived  of  appetite  as  her  friend. 
She  burns  with  indignation — she  has  lost  all  fear  of  her  terrible 
grandfather,  and  is  perfectly  capable  of  bearding  him,  of  saying 
the  bitterest  things  to  him,  in  her  present  mood. 

Mrs.  Vaughan  makes  a  move  as  soon  as  possible  after  dinner; 
then  Edith,  putting  her  arm  through  Vanessa's,  leads  her  out 
into  the  garden.  Not  a  word  is  said  by  either  until  they  reach 
the  summer-house  near  the  lakelet;  then  Edith  lays  her  head  on 
her  friend's  shoulder  and  bursts  into  tears.  Under  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances, nothing  would  have  induced  her  to  allude  to  Lady 
Mildred  and  Lord  Ravenhold  in  the  same  breath,  but  her  sym- 
pathy is  so  great,  she  feels  the  occasion  to  be  fraught  with  so 
terrible  an  importance,  that  it  is  impossible  for  her  to  remain 
silent. 

For  the  present,  Vanessa  sits  motionless,  impassive:  her  eyes 
look  across  the  water  with  a  stony  expression;  her  mouth  is 
tense. 

"  He  is  the  most  wicked,  hateful,  abominable  old  man  wno 
ever  lived,  although  he  is  my  grandfather!"  cries  Edith.  "To 
think  that  he  should  have  nursed  his  wicked  love  of  revenge  all 
this  time!  Mab  was  quite  right,  three  years  ago,  when  she  de- 
clared that  he  only  asked  Lord  Ravenhold  here  because  he  was 
in  hopes  you  would  fall  in  love  with  him  and  that  it  might  make 
you  miserable,  and  now  he  has  found  out  a  new  way  of  hurting 
you.  It  is  too  horrible!" 

.  A  quick  light  flashes  to  Vanessa's  eyes,  the  color  flows  to  her 
paleface;  she  clinches  one  hand ;  her  voice  takes  a  strange  in* 
tensity. 

"  I  have  never,  never  until  this  moment,"  she  says,  "wished 
harm  to  any  one  in  the  world,  but  now  I  pray  God  to  requite 
him  for  his  wickedness!" 

'*  And  so  do  I!"  cries  Edith.  "  I  feel  as  though  I  should  not 
care  if  the  most  dreadful  thing  happened  to  him." 

"You  did  not  know  it  before?"  says  Vanessa.  6t  No!  I  saw 
.that  by  your  face:  but  Mrs.  Vaughan  must  have  known." 

"  I  will  go  this  moment  and  ask  her, "exclaims  Edith,  starting 
up,  and  ?bn  tv,kes  her  swift  way  across  the  turf  fo  the  house, 


204  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

Vanessa  does  not  attempt  to  stop  her.  She  does  not  care  what 
Mrs.  Vaughan  may  think;  the  idea  of  all  she  loves  being 
wrested  from  her  stultifies  every  other  feeling.  She  foresees 
her  danger  well  enough.  Gerard  hates  to  be  bored.  She  could  see 
how  long  he  found  that  one  day  at  the  Vicarage;  how  he  had 
yawned  and  looked  at  his  watch,  and  smoked  countless  cigar- 
ettes. He  would  be  always  up  at  the  Ha,ll  with  Lady  Mildred, 
Sir  Bertram  (3he  ground  her  small  teeth  as  she  thought  of  him) 
would  lose  no  opportunity  of  throwing  them  together.  She  had 
been  Gerard's  mistress  once. 

Oh,  great  God!  what  should  she  do;  it She  looked  at  the 

Btill  water  with  wild  eyes.  If  it  came  to  that,  she  would  drown 
herself — she  could  not  live  and  bear  such  agony! 

In  a  few  minutes,  Edith  came  flying  back. 

"  Mamma  has  told  me  all.  She  is  dreadfully  vexed;  but  she 
did  not  know  his  object  before.  He  ordered  her  ten  days  ago  to 
write  and  ask  Lady  Mildred  here  when  she  left  Cowes,  and  he 
said  expressly  that  she  was  not  to  mention  it  to  me.  But  now" 
— her  excitement  growing — "  we  must  frustrate  him  somehow. 
Let  us  put  our  heads  together;  let  us  think  what  we  can  do  to 
prevent  their  meeting  here!" 

"We  cannot  prevent  it,"  utters  Vanessa,  in  a  voice  out  of 
which  all  hope  and  spirit  are  gone. 

"But  we  will,"  says  Edith,  firmly.  "  I  will  do  my  best,  if 
I  break  with  grandpapa  forever  for  it." 

"  It  is  no  use  fighting  against  fate,"  answers  Vanessa,  with  pro- 
found melancholy, 

"  Fate!"  cries  Edith,  with  immense  spirit;  "  we  will  alter  fate, 
or,  at  all  events,  we  will  not  allow  it  to  become  fate.  After  all, 
dearest,  neither  you  nor  I  believe  that  your  husband  cares  two 
straws  for  that  horrid  woman;  and  you  are  so  beautiful,  she 
cannot  hold  a  candle  to  you." 

"  But  she  is  so  wicked,"  answers  Vanessa,  with  a  tone  of  pro- 
found conviction.  "  She  hates  me  so— she  will  never  rest  until 
ehe  has  avenged  herself  upon  me  for  taking  Gerard  from  her. 
And  if  she  does,"  sinking  her  voice  to  a  whisper,  "  I  shall  die." 

Something  in  her  tone  frightens  Edith. 

"  No,  no,  no.  do  not  talk  such  nonsense!"  she  cries,  throwing 
her  arms*round  her  friend  and  kissing  her  pale  cheek  a  dozen 
ffirnes.  "  It  will  never,  never  happen.  And  now,  dearest,  let  us 
rack  our  brains  to  think  what  we  shall  do  to  circumvent  this 
wicked  old  man;  you  think  to-night,  and  I  will  think  too — things 
come  to  one  so  much  better  in  the  night." 

Vanessa  heaves  a  long,  hopeless  sigh. 

"  I  cannot  see  him  again,"  she  says,  alluding  to  the  squire — 
"  do,  Edie,  fetch  me  my  cloak  and  hat,  and  I  will  go  home.  You 
will  make  an  excuse  to  ray  father.  Do  not  make  any  to  Sir 
Bertram.  He,"  bitterly,  "  will  understand  quite  well,  Oh, 
Heaven,  lifting  her  eyes  to  the  darkened  sky,  "  how  can  it  make 
any  one  happy  to  torture  others — to  see  them  suffer!" 

Edith  gees "  to  the  house  and  fetches  her  own  hat  and  net 


'  Y  HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED,  £05 

"  I  will  walk  to  the  gate  with  you,"  she  says,  and,  arm  in  arm, 
with  sad  hearts,  they  turn  their' steps  toward  the  avenue. 

Vanessa  remembers  that  the  very  last  time  she  came  this  way 
it  was  to  meet  Ravenhold,  repentant  of  her  cruelty  to  him.  Is 
it  possible,  she  wonders  to  herself  now,  that  he  was  once  the 
poor  suppliant  and  she  the  tyrant  ? 

As  Edith  returns  alone  to  the  Hall  deep  in  thought,  a  sudden 
resolve  comes  to  her.  She  will  speak  to  her  grandfather  to- 
night. And  though  her  heart  beats  to  suffocation  with  the  fear 
of  him  that  has  become  a  habit,  she  never  wavers  one  instant 
from  her  determination. 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THF  vicar  has  departed;  Mrs.  Vaughan  retires  to  her  room; 
Sir  Bertram,  as  usual,  when  the  rest  of  the  family  wish  him 
good-night,  goes  to  his  sanctum.  And  there  Edith  follows  him. 
Her  knees  knock  together:  she  is  terrified  at  what  she  is  going 
to  do;  but  still  she  does  not  shrink  or  falter.  She  thinks  how 
glad  she  wouM  be  of  Mab's  company  and  countenance — Mab, 
who  is  so  infinitely  more  courageous  and  difficult  to  daunt  than 
she. 

Edith  gi^es  a  low  rap  at  the  door,  and  isv  answered  by  a  sharp 
summons  to  enter.  At  one  glance  Sir  Bertram  guesses  why  she 
has  come,  and  puts  on  his  sternest,  his  most  terrible  manner. 
He  does  not  ask  what  she  wants,  but  continues  to  regard  her 
with  menacing  eyes. 

"  Grandpapa,"  says  poor  Edith,  utterly  unable  to  control  the 
tremor  of  her  voice,  "  I  have  come  to  ask  you  a  favor." 

"  Really!'  he  answers,  in  a  biting  tone.  "  And  is  it  something 
of  such  immediate  importance  that  it  compels  you  to  come  to 
me  at  a  time  when  I  think  you  know  it  is  particularly  disagreeable 
to  me  to  be  disturbed  ?" 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  stammers  Edith;  "  but  it  is  of  the  greatest 
importance." 

"  Then  pray,  my  dear,"  returns  the  squire,  still  speaking  in  the 
same  tone,  "take  a  chair,  and  if  you  could  contrive  to  look  a 
little  less  like  a  criminal  at  the  dock  it  would  make  our  interview 
more  agreeable — at  all  events,  to  me." 

Every  word  he  utters  increases  the  difficult^  of  her  self-im- 
posed task — a  fact  of  which  he  is  perfectly  well  aware — he  loves 
to  see  people  tremble  before  him,  especially  those  who  dare  at- 
tempt to  thwart  him. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something  that  I  am  sure  you  do  not 
know,"  says  Edith,  in  a  low  voice,  and  very  far  from  carrying 
out  her  idea  of  bearding  the  squire.  "  Vanessa  has  a  great  dis- 
like to  Lady  Mildred  Belair— she  would  not  like  to  meet  her  at 
all." 

"  But,  my  dear,"  observes  the  squire,  with  an  innocent  air,  "I 
have  not  invited  Lady  Ravenhold  to  stay  here.  There  is  no  rea- 
son on  earth  why  they  should  even  set  eyes  on  each  other." 

;<  Oh,  grandpapa,  it  is  not  that!"  cries  Edith — "  it  is  because  of 
Lord  Ravenhold  I" 


806  /    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVEl>. 

44  Either  you  are  pleased  to  speak  in  parables  or  you  are  U5.ftble 
to  express  yourself  intelligibly.  Fiist  you  say  it  is  Lady  Raven- 
hold  who  dislikes  my  intended  guest,  now  you  lay  the  dislike  orv 
Lord  Ravenhold,  Let  them  by  all  means  remain  away  from  the 
Hall  whilst  Lady  Mildred  is  here." 

"  It  is  not  that  Lord  Ravenhold  does  not  like  Lady  Mildred,*' 
says  Edith,  ready  to  cry — "  it  is  because  he  likes  her,  and  that 
makes  poor  Vanessa  unhappy." 

"  Pooh,  pooh,  my  dear;  what  silly  idea  have  you  taken  into 
your  head  ?  I  fear  your  own  little  disappointment  has  slightly 
unhinged  your  mind  on  the  subject  of  love  and  jealousy,"  re- 
marks Sir  Bertram,  sardonically. 

Edith  does  not  need  the  gibe. 

"  Did  you  not  see  the  effect  your  words  had  on  her  ?"  she  cries. 
"  Did  you  not  see  how  white  she  turned  ?  did  you  not  notice  that 
she  never  ate  one  morsel  after  you  said  that  Lady  Mildred  was 
corning  ?" 

'*  I  imagined  she  was  suffering  from  a  little  faintness  incidental 
to  ladies  in  delicate  health,"  answers  the  squire,  and  he  tells  this 
stupendous  lie  with  serene  calmness. 

"  It  was  on  account  of  Lady  Mildred,"  cries  Edith,  with  blaz- 
ing cheeks.  "  I  think  it  will  be  the  death  of  her.  Oh,  grand- 
papa! I  assure  you  this  is  the  truth.  Pray,  pray  do  not  have  her 
here!" 

"  I  am  satisfied,  my  dear,"  returns  the  squire,  "  that  you  are 
laboring  under  a  ridiculous  mistake." 

"  But  if  she  told  me  so  with  her  own  lips." 

"The  last  tiling  a  jealous  woman  does  is  to  confess  her 
jealousy." 

"  I  am  her  greatest  woman  friend.  I  tell  you,  grandpapa,  the 
thought  drives  her  nearly  mad.  Oh,  why,  why  are  you  so  cruel  ? 
why  do  you  want  to  be  revenged  on  the  poor  child  ?" 

"  Revenged!"  and  a  terrible  lightning  flashes  into  the  old  man's 
ey?s.  "  Explain  yourself  this  instant." 

But  Edith's  fear  is  swallowed  up  in  her  anxiety  for  her  friend. 

"She  knows  it — we  all  know  that  you  have  never  forgiven 
her.  We  know  why  you  asked  Lord  Ravenhold  here  when  poor 
Mr.  Brandon  was  alive,  and  we  know  why  you  are  asking  Lady 
Mildred  now." 

"  Oh!"  says  Sir  Bertram,  in  a  voice  the  quietness  of  which  is 
awful,  "  this  clairvoyance  on  your  part  must,  I  fear,  be  caused 
by  hysteria.  Pray  go  to  your  room.  I  will  have  restoratives 
taken  there,  and  Jenkins  shall  be  sent  for  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning." 

Edith  throws  herself  at  his  feet.  Sir  Bertram  pulls  the  bell 
violently.  Edith  has  scarcely  time  to  rise  before  a  servant  hur- 
ries in. 

"  Send  Miss  Vaughan's  maid  at  once!"  cries  the  squire,  im- 
periously. "  She  is  taken  very  unwell!"  and,  to  avoid  exposure, 
Edith  rushes  from  the  room,  and  meets  her  maid  on  the  stairs,, 


looking  very  much  alarmed. 
"  It  is  nothing,  nothing,"  i 


"  she  says,  making  her  way  swiftly  to 


/    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  207 

her  room.     A  minute  later  there  is  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  a  tray 
containing  brandy  and  sal- volatile  is  handed  in. 

When  Sir  Bertram  has,  by  his  successful  maneuver,  dis- 
embarrassed himself  of  his  granddaughter's  presence,  he  sits 
calmly  down  to  his  writing-table,  and  pens  the  following  note: 

"  DEAR  EDITH, — Should  your  daughter  attempt  to  treat  me  to 
another  such  scene  as  the  one  with  which  she  favored  me*  to- 
night. I  shall  be  under  the  disagreeable  necessity  of  shutting  my 
doors  forever  on  both  her  and  you. 

"  Your  affectionate  father, 

k'  BERTRAM  ORFORD." 

This  he  desires  to  be  given  to  Mrs.  Vaughan's  maid  to  d.elivet 
the  first  thing  next  morning.  He  seals  it,  a  precaution  he  in* 
variably  takes,  as  nothing  would  induce  him  to  believe  in  any 
servant  being  actuated  by  the  smallest  sense  of  honor.  Mean- 
time, poor  Edith  is  racking  her  brain  for  the  means  of  helping 
her  friend — the  appeal  to  her  grandfather  has  been  far  worse 
than  useless,  and  she  bitterly  deplores  her  want  of  self-control 
in  all  uding  to  his  desire  for  revenge  and  the  cause  thereof.  The 
only  conclusion  she  arrives  at  is  that  by  some  means  or  other 
Vanessa  must  be  induced  to  leave  the  place  during  the  time  of 
Lady  Mildred's  visit;  for  it  is  quite  certain  that  Lord  Raveiihold 
cannot  go  to  the  Vicarage  if  his  wife  is  away  from  it. 

The  next  morning  at  eight  o'clock  her  mother  comes  rushing 
to  her  room  with  Sir  Bertram's  letter  to  demand  an  explanation. 
It  is  in  no  measured  terms  that  she  denounces  her  daughter's 
folly  \vhen  Edith  relates  the  event  of  the  previous  evening;  she 
weeps  and  threatens — she  accuses  Edith  of  wishing  to  break  her 
heart  (which,  by  the  way,  is  as  tough  as  it  is  small);  she  asks 
with  angry  impatience  why  in  the  world  she  cannot  let  other 
people's  affairs  alone;  in  short,  there  is  a  very  serious  scene  be- 
tween them.  Edith  dresses  herself  hastily  and  leaves  the  house 
by  stealth  for  the  Vicarage,  determined,  whatever  happens,  to 
be  stanch  to  her  friend. 

She  finds  Lady  Ravenhold  still  in  bed,  looking  the  picture  of 
dejection  arid  misery— she  has  lain  awake  all  night  making  a 
thousand  projects;  but  each  and  all  are  stultified  by  one  terror 
—the  terror  of  coming  to  an  open  rupture  with  Gerard.  Edith 
says  not  one  word  of  her  interview  with  Sir  Bertram  the  night 
before  —she  is  thoroughly  ashamed  of  her  want  of  tact,  and 
knows  that  Vanessa  would  never  forgive  her  for  haying  invoke^ 
the  squire's  mercy  on  her  behalf. 

Lady  Ravenhold,  seeing  Edith's  white  face  and  red  eyelids, 
feels  comforted  by  her  sympathy,  and  clasps  her  hand  affection 
ately. 

"  My  darling  Nessa,"  cries  Edith,  "  have  you  thought  of  some- 
thing ?" 

"I  have  thought  of  a  thousand  things,"  answers  Vanessa, 
wearily;  "  but  they  are  all  impossible.  I  am  very  silly.  Of 
course  I  know  that  Gerard  loves  me — why  else  should  he  have 
married  me  ?  but  I  cannot  help  dreading  that  woman's  influence. 
O  t.Vuira'  is  go  little  for  hyn  to  do  here,  and  he  will  be  al* 


208  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

ways  going  up  to  the  Hall  to  be  amused.  And  I  never  could 
pretend  anything.  I  know  I  ought  to  laugh  and  be  cheery,  and 
try  to  arnuse  him,  and  defeat  her,  but  I  could  not  do  it.  I  shall 
be  miserable;  I  shall  cry;  I  shall  reproach  him;  and  that  will 
make  him  ten  times  worse,  ten  times  more  anxious  to  get  away 
from  me.  He  cannot  bear  to  be  found  fault  with." 

"You  must  go  away!"  exclaims  Edith.  "Find  any  pretext 
you  like,  but  go,  and  then  he  must  join  you.  Oh,  how  I  should 
delight  to  see  her  come  here  alone!" 

"  My  dear  child,  it  is  impossible!"  answers  Vanessa.  "  Think 
what  a  fuss  I  have  made— what  invitations  I  have  refused  that 
I  might  come  and  stay  with  papa.  How  could  I  go  away  and 
leave  him  in  less  than  a  week  ?" 

"My  darling,"  cries  Edith,  "I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  but 
now,  truly,  do  you  think  your  father  would  feel  it  very  much? 
He  is  devoted  to  you,  of  course,  but  you  know  he  is  so  wrapped 
up  in  his  book  that  he  grudges  every  hour  spent  away  from 
it." 

"That  is  true,"  answers  Vanessa,  mournfully.  "  Btfj  then, 
poor,  dear  Susan,  how  disappointed  she  would  be!" 

"  Susan  would  rather  endure  anything  in  the  world  than  see 
you  unhappy." 

"  But  where  could  I  go?"  says  Vanessa. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Fane?" 

1 '  I  had  a  letter  from  her  the  day  before  yesterday.  She  wanted 
us  to  go  down  with  her  to  Orange  Court  next  Monday." 

"  That  would  be  the  very  thing!"  cries  Edith. 

But  Lady  Ravenhold  only  shakes  her  head  with  a  dejected 
air. 

'•"Well,  if  you  won't,"  utters  Edith,  feigning  to  give  up  her 
p£rsu8sion,  "  Do  you  know,  Nessa,  I  have  had  no  breakfast? 
May  I  ask  Susan  for  a  cup  of  tea  ?" 

"  Oh,  my  poor  child!"  exclaimed  Vanessa,  stretching  out  her 
hand  to  the  bell;  but  Edith  runs  out  of  the  room,  saying: 

"  No,  no,  I  will  ask  her  myself.  Susan,"  she  says,  hurrying 
into  the  kitchen,  "I  have  got  a  letter  to  write  in  the  greatest 
hurry.  What  time  does  your  post  go  out  ?" 

"In  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  miss,"  answers  Susan,  amazed  at 
Miss  Vaughan's  energy. 

'•  Make  me  a  cup  of  tea  meantime,  like  a  good  creature,  and 
then  I  have  something  most  important  to  say  to  you.  Not  a 
word  to  her  ladyship."  And  Edith  proceeds  to  the  drawing- 
room  and  dashes  off  a  letter  to  Hermione. 

"  PEAR  MRS.  FANE, — Please  don't  think  me  mad.  I  am  writ- 
ing against  time.  You  must  by  some  means  induce  Vanessa  to 
leave  this  before  Saturday,  and  you  must  get  Lord  Bavenhold  to 
meet  her  in  London  and  not  to  come  down  here  at  present.  1 
implore  you  to  manage  it  somehow ;  otherwise  I  will  not  answei 
for  the  consequences.  I  have  not  time  to  explain  now.  Do  tele* 
graph  to  her — the  nearest  telegraph  station  is  eleven  miles. 
"  Sincerely  yours, 

uThe  Vicarage.  EDITH  VAUGHAN." 


"  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED  $09 

Th?n  she  bethinks  her  of  a  P.  S.  that  will  probably  give  the 
necessary  stimulus  to  Mrs.  Fane's  exertions. 

"  Lady  Mildred  Belair  is  coming  here  on  Saturday — probably 
with  him." 

Tken  she  flies  to  the  post-office  herself.     She  is  just  in  time. 

Susan  has  meanwhile  laid  her  breakfast  in  great  state  in  the 
dining-room. 

"  Susan,"  she  utters,  impressively,  "I  have  something  to  say 
to  you.  If  you  hear  a  word  about  her  ladyship  leaving  here  at 
once,  do  all  in  your  power  to  persuade  her  to  go,  I  hardly  think 
I  ought  to  tell  you  why,  only  I  know  you  love  her  like  your  own 
ehil-d." 

"  Ay,"  says  Susan,  "  that  I  do,  miss." 

* '  You  know  everything  about  her.  Of  course  you  know  that 
Sir  Bertram  wanted  to  marry  her.  Well,  he  has  never  forgiven 
her  for  refusing  him,  and  has  always  tried  to  be  revenged  on 
her." 

"  Why,  never!"  cries  Susan,  aghast. 

"  And  now,"  pursues  Edith,  breathlessly,  "  he  has  asked  a  lady 

to  the  Hall  whom  Lord  Ravenhold  was  once  fond  of " 

-      *'  But  surely,"  interrupts  Susan,  excitedly,  "  his  lordship  being 
a  married  man,  and  so  fond  of  my  young  lady " 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  says  Edith.  "'But  all  the  same,  Nessa 
is  so  devoted  to  him  that  she  might  fancy  things,  and  she  is  al- 
ready dreadfully  distressed." 

"  Well,  then,  miss,*  you  let  me  alone  for  persuading  her  lady- 
ship to  go  away." 

"  Yes;  but  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  let  her  think  I  have  breathed 
a  syllable  to  you !" 

Then  Edith  hastily  swallows  a  cup  of  tea,  and  returns  to  Va- 
nessa with  the  most  innocent  air  in  the  world. 

"Susan  gave  me  such  a  tremendous  breakfast,"  she  says, 
"  And  now  I  must  be  hurrying  back;  for  if  either  grandpapa  or 
mamma  discovers  that  I  have  been  with  you,  I  shall  get  into 
the  most  awful  disgrace." 

And  kissing  her  friend  affectionately,  she  departs,  rejoiced  at 
what  she  has  done.  She  has  so  much  time  for  renV  don  during 
the  rest  of  the  day  that  it  occurs  to  her  that,  if  Vai  -essa  should 
become  aware  that  she  has  had  anything  to  do  witfc  Mrs.  Fane's 
next  communication,  her  purpose  'may  be  defeated  She  there- 
fore intrusts  a  note  to  Marter  to  be  sent  secretly  to  f  he  Vicarage, 
entreating  Lady  Ravenhold  still  to  think  over  some,  plan  of  frus- 
trating Sir  Bertram.  But  Vanessa  has  taken  a  foolish  idea  into 
her  poor,  beautiful  head  about  Kismet,  and  sits  helplessly  with 
her  hands  before  her,  and  does  nothing. 

About  noon  the  following  day,  Thursday,  Susan  comes  hurry- 
ing to  her  with  a  telegram.  When  Vanessa  sees  it,  that  awful 
terror  comes  over  her  with  which  an  orange  envelope  afflicts 
most  women  who  are  unfortunate  enough  to  love  absorbingly 
some  other  mortal.  In  one  instant  she  sees  Gerard,  stiff,  stark 
dead.  She  sees  as  much,  goes  though  as  much  as  the  drowning 


S10  T    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVEDT 

man  is  supposed  to  do.     Yet  she  tears  it  ope*  with  mad  haste  to 
know  the  worst  at  once. 

"  From  Mrs.  Fane.  Grosvenor  Place,  etc.,  etc. 
"  Pray  come  to  me   to-morrow.     Important  family  business. 
Am  sending  for  Gerard.     My  own  affairs.     Telegraph  back." 

Vanessa  reads  it  once  to  see  that  nothing  is  wrong  with  her 
darling.  She  reads  it  a  second  and  a  third  time,  to  get  the  sen§« 
of  it  into  her  head. 

Susan  has  been  watching  her  anxiously:  first  her  terrified  ex- 
pression, then  the  gradual  relaxing  of  her  features. 

Susan  has  not  felt  any  alarm  herself.  She  is  confident  it  is  in 
ftome  way  connected  with  Miss  Vaughan's  letter.  She  is  ready 
to  persuade  her  young  lady  to  start  off  on  any  journey  at  once. 

Vanessa  looks  a  little  bit  perplexed,  although  a  delightful  sen- 
sation is  stealing  through  her  heart.  To  see  Gerard  to-morrow 
— Gerard  without  her  rival! 

"  1  cannot  understand,"  she  says,  thoughtfully,  tapping  her 
Jip  with  the  telegram,  and  looking  at  Susan.  '4  Mrs.  Fane  wants 
me  to  go  off  to  her  at  once,  to-morrow,  on  some  important 
family  business." 

"  Why,  deary  me!"  ejaculates  Susan,  who  has  a  considerable, 
amount  of  tact.     "  Well,  it  must  be  important,  if  she  wants  you 
to  go  all  that  way  back  again  in  such  a  hurry!" 

Vanessa's  thoughts  fly  to  Mr.  Anson — Giles  Fane— a  separation 
— a  divorce.  She  hardly  sees  why  her  presence  should  be  needed, 
but  then  she  knows  nothing  whatever  of  such  matters. 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  she  says.  "  But  I  don't  like  leaving  papa  in 
this  sort  of  way.  and  you,  Susan,"  affectionately. 

"  Oh,  my  dear."  replies  Susan,  *'  don't  you  think  of  that;  your 
first  duty  is  to  your  husband  now,  and  to  attend  to  his  wishes 
and  his  family's.  Besides,  you'll  be  coming  back  again.  I  don't 
expect  they'll  be  wanting  you  for  very  long.  The  man's  waiting 
for  an  answer.  I've  set  him  down  to  some  bread  and  cheese  and 
a  glass  of  ale." 

Vanessa  cogitates.  The  more  she  thinks  of  it,  the  more  it 
seems  her  duty  to  go;  the  more  pleasant  seems  the  duty.  Hero 
is  an  unexpected  way  out  of  her  misery.  Is  not  this  the  hand 
of  Providence  ?  Oh,  how  devoutly  "she  thanks  God  in  her 
heart! 

Yes,  she  will  go. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  go,"  she  says  to  Susan,  feigning  a  slight 
reluctance. 

"Do  you  so,  my  dear,"  answers  Susan,  who.  when  she  is 
moved  on  behalf  of  her  nursling,  always  forgets  her  title. 

So  Vanessa  joyfully  sends  answer: 

"  Will  go  to  you  to-morrow  by  eleven  train.'' 

Then  she  writes  a  note  to  the  innkeeper  to  send  her  over  a 
carriage  two  hours  earlier  than  she  requires  it  next  morning  to 
be  sure  of  its  not  failing  her,  and  gives  it  with  the  telegram  to 
the  messenger. 

When  he  is  gone,  Susan,  for  the  first  time,  broaches  a  subject 
that  she  has  thought  of  from  the  outset. 


JT     HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  211 

"Well,  my  lady,"  she  observes,  "it  is  quite  certain  that  you 
can't  take  that  journey  alone,  and.  as  far  as  I  can  see,  there's  no 
one  but  me  to  go  with  you." 

"  My  dear,  ridiculous  old  creature,"  laughs  Vanessa,  who  is 
quite  a  c  bunged  being  since  the  telegram  came,  "what  an  idea! 
What  harm  could  come  to  nieJr" 

"  First  place,  it  wouldn't  be  befitting  your  ladyship's  rank  to 
travel  alone,"  observes  Susan,  with  an  important  air,  "and  in 
the  second,  I  would  no  more  have  you  travel  alone  than — than 
I'd  ride  on  an  ingiri  myself." 

Vanessa  laughs. 

"  I  should  delight  to  take  you,"  she  says,  "  but  how  about  poor 
papa :" 

"  Oh,  Hepzibah  can  do  all  that  master  will  want,  and  I'll  get 
Mary  Ann  just  to  run  down.  Not  but  what  I  could  come  back 
same  night  or  next  morning." 

.  "Why,  then  I  should  have  to  come  back  to  see  you  safe,"  laughs 
Vanessa.  "But,  really,  Susy,  I  should  like  of  everything  to 
show  you  London,  so  we  will  ask  papa's  leave." 

When  the  vicar  is  told  of  his  daughter's  departure,  he  assents 
so  cheerfully  and  with  such  an  unconscious  air  of  relief  that 
Vanessa,  though  she  smiles,  is  the  least  bit  inclined  to  cry  too. 
She  dispatches  a  note  secretly  to  Edith  (whom  she  never  for  one 
instant  suspects  of  being  her  Dens  ex  machina)  relating  this 
marvelous  intervention  of  Providence. 

And  next  day  she  starts  joyously  on  her  journey,  whilst  poor 
Susan  is  nearly  dead  with  fright,  never  having  seen  a  train  be- 
fore. Half  of  her  journey  is  occupied  in  repeating  to  herself  a 
verse  out  of  the  litany  which  prays  for  delivery  from  battle, 
murder,  and  sudden  death.  Herniione  meets  Vanessa  with  the 
brougham  in  London,  and,  as  both  ladies  are  anxious  for  the 
welfare  of  Susan,  the  footman  goes  inside  the  cab  to  take  care 
of  and  to  reassure  her. 

Herniione  says  not  one  word  about  family  affairs  until  she  and 
Vanessa  have  drunk  tea  in  her  boudoir.  Then  suddenly  she 
comes  and  sits  on  an  ottoman  beside  her,  and,  putting  one  arm 
round  her,  says: 

"  What  will  you  say  when  I  tell  you  that  my  '  family  affairs  ' 
are  only  a  ruse  to  get  you  here  ?  Hush!"  as  Vanessa's  astonished 
lips  unclose.  "It  is  a  little  bit  of  wickedness  on  my  part,  and 
you  will  have  to  assist  me  in  the  farce.  I  want  to  be  revenged 
on  Mildred.  She  has  been  plotting  to  get  asked  to  Sir  Bertram's 
just  as  she  plotted  about  the  Voyageuse,  in  order  to  vex  you. 
Don't  you  trouble  your  dear  head!  Gerard  does  not  care  a  fig 
for  her— he  will  be  "delighted  not  to  be  there  with  her,  and  only 
think" — clapping  her  hands  —  "  only  think  what  she  will  feel 
when  she  finds  herself  there  alone!" 

"  But,"  utters  Vanessa,  her  breath  almost  taken  away,  "  how 
do  you  know  all  this  ?" 

"Gerard  told  me;  he  was  quite  bored  at  the  thought  of  her 
going  to  the  Hall." 

The  last  statement  is  a  mixture  of  truth  and  mendacity.  It 
had  been  arranged  all  along  that  Gerard  ^LS  _£o  sleep  in  Groe- 


212  T  HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. " 

venor  Place  on  this  night,  because  the  double  journey  could 
not  be  made  in  one  day,  but  it  was  only  this  morning  she  had  a 
letter  from  him  saying  he  was  going  to  take  Lady  Mildred  down 
to  Sir  Bertram's. 

"But  now/' continues  Hermione,  gleefully,  "Gerard  has  to 
be  hoodwinked."  And  she  proceeds  to  impart  to  Vanessa  her 
plan  for  throwing  dust  in  his  eyes. 

Lady  Ravenhold  is  put  to  bed:  a  very  wise  precaution  after  the 
fatigue  of  her  long  journey.  Susan  is  installed  as  nurse  and 
watcher.  Scarcely  are  all  arrangements  complete,  when  hit 
lordship's  hansom  dashes  up.  When  Hermione  lies  talked  to 
him  for  half  a  minute,  he  turns  so  deathly  white  that  she  has  to 
reassure  him  much  more  than  she  intended;  but  he  is  off  like 
lightning  up-stairs.  Unmindful  of  Susan  or  of  any  fear  of  agi- 
tating the  invalid,  he  catches  her  in  his  arms,  he  strains  her  to 
his  heart,  and  she,  like  a  foolish,  loving  woman,  cries  because 
she  is  so  happy. 

He  forgets  all  about  Lady  Mildred — he  can  hardly  sit  through 
dinner  with  his  sister,  so  anxious  is  he  to  be  back  with  his  wife; 
it  is  indeed  a  renewal  of  love.  Lady  Mildred's  name  is  never 
mentioned — there  is  nothing  but  smiles,  hand-claspings,  kisses. 

Suddenly  his  lordship  bethinks  him  of  Lady  Mildred,  and  that 
common  decency  requires  him  to  notify  her  of  the  change  in  hit 
movements.  He  goes  off  down-stairs  to  write  his  note,  an<t 
sends  Kermione  up  to  Vanessa.  The  little  lady  dances  a  war- 
dance  expressive  of  delight  in  front  of  the  bed. 

**  Now,''  she  cries,  "  if  ever  you  dare  to  let  out  to  Gerard,  in  * 
foolish  moment  of  confidence,  the  truth  about  this,  I  will  never 
help  you  again  as  long  as  I  live!*' 

The  sympathetic  reader  will  imagine  Lady  Mildred's  feeliDgf 
as  she  read  the  following  note: 

"  DEAR  MILLY,— I  found  my  poor  dear  wife  ill  in  bed  when  I 
arrived.  Thank  God  she  is  not  in  any  danger.  I  shall  now,  of 
course,  not  be  able  to  be  your  escort  to-morrow,  and  it  is  not  a2 
all  likely  that  we  shall  go  to  Blankshire  at  present.  I  hope  yoi 
will  have  a  pleasant  time,  aiicF find  some  cheery  people  in  the 
house.  Yours, 

"  RAVEXHOLD.'' 

This  time  it  was  unquestionably  Vanessa's  turn. 

CHAPTER   XXXV. 

AUGUST,  September,  October,  are  past  and  gone— November  it 
here. 

Lord  and  Lady  Ravenhold  are  at  Dallas  Park.  How  fares  ft 
with  them  ?  Has  the  reconciliation  in  Grosvenor  Place  bee* 
lasting?  do  they  understand  each  other  better?  have  they  be- 
come thoroughly  united  ?  is  Gerard  not  so  inclined  to  wander? 
is  Vanessa  less  exacting  ?  If  I  have  at  all  succeeded  in  deline- 
ating their  two  characters,  the  reader  who  has  any  knowledge 
of  life  will  be  able  to  answer  this  question  at  once.  I  must  replj 
to  it  for  the  sake  of  the  tyro. 

Alas,  then,  things  have  not  gone  well.     He  is  bored  and  notst 


1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED  jjjj 

attentive  as  he  should  be — she  is  more  exacting  than  ever  and 
very  unhappy.  No  one  could  say  he  is  unkind  to  her — at  such  a 
time  he  would  feel  that  any  unkindness  would  be  brutality,  but 
he  leaves  her  a  good  deal  alone,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that \vhen 
he  departs  from  home  he  is  as  blithe,  as  a  schoolboy  going  off  on 
a  holiday,  and  that  when  he  returns  to  find  his  wife  ill  and  in 
teaus,  it  has  a  very  depressing  effect  upon  him.  He  begins  to 
entertain  doubts  as  to  the  wisdom  or  happiness  of  the  marriage 
state,  and  to  think  that  a  man  who  enters  it  with  his  eyes  wide 
open  is  rather  a  fool;  but  then  does  any  man  enter  it  with  his 
eyes  wide  open  ?  or  does  he  not  rather  put  his  hands  before 
them  and  refuse  to  see  ?  A  lovely  wife  in  robust  health  who 
could  accompany  hhr  "~rerywhere,  of  whom  his  love  and  admi- 
ration would  be  constantly  stimulated  by  the  envy  written  in 
other  men's  eyes  and  their  covert  endeavors  to  steal  her  from 
him ;  such  a  wife  as  that  might  probably  still  have  kept  him 
chained  to  her  side;  but  though  he  admitted  the  necessity,  the 
positive  desirability  of  present  circumstances,  he  was  horribly 
bored  and  inconvenienced  by  them  all  the  same. 

Vanessa  was  in  very  delicate  health,  and  had  to  be  taken  the 
greatest  care  of,  and  there  was  not  much  probability  of  any 
amelioration  of  her  case  just  yet.  So  it  was  determined  that 
they  should  remain  at  Dallas  Park,  and  Gerard  took  violently  to 
hunting  again.  This  was  the  cause  of  great  misery  and  terror  to 
poor  Vanessa,  who  was  dreadfully  afraid  of  losing  a  treasure 
from  which,  after  all,  she  did  not  derive  a  very  vast  amount  of 
pleasure.  At  the  same  time  she  felt  the  absolute  absurdity  and 
impossibility  of  attempting  to  keep  him  chained  to  her  side,  and 
suffered  as  much  as  possible  in  silence. 

Lady  Mildred  was  never  mentioned  between  them.  Once 
Gerard  had  let  fall  a  hint  that  he  had  not  been  altogether  taken 
in  by  her  ruse  and  Hermione's,  although  at  first  it  had  deceived 
him.  He  often  went  up  to  town  for  the  day — sometimes  for  the 
day  and  night,  and  Vanessa  was  tormented  by  the  idea  that  he 
saw  Lady  Mildred  there,  but  dared  not  tax  him  with  it.  When 
he  returned  he  always  showed  her  a  long  list  of  places  where 
he  had  been,  and  seemed  cheery  and  affectionate,  as  though  the 
change  had  done  him  good.  Every  now  and  then  he  would 
grow  restless  and  somewhat  captious  at  home,  and  then  a  visit 
to  London  invariably  produced  a  beneficial  effect  upon  him. 
The  fact  was  that  he  did  see  a  great  deal  of  Lady  Mildred.  He 
felt  it  impossible  to  give  up  her  society,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  he  considered  that  it  was  positively  a  righteous  act  to  lie 
to  his  wife  on  the  subject.  It  would  only  cause  a  row  and  make 
her  ill. 

Never  was  a  woman  so  transformed  as  Lady  Mildred.  Her 
passionate  temper,  her  fits  of  imperiousness  and  ill  humor  had 
disappeared;  she  never  sulked,  never  reproached  him,  not  even 
for  the  awful  ten  days  she  spent  at  the  Hall.  She  hated  Vanessa 
with  an  undenying  hatred— she  had  no  scruples  about  injuring 
her;  all  she  wanted  was  revenge.  Vanessa  had  deliberately  taken 
from  her  the  only  man  she  ever  loved,  and  she  would  leave  ne 
stone  unturned  to  ?t  him  back, 


214  1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 


Gerar<l  came  to  her,  she  always  remembered  his  favor- 
lie  dishes,  sh^  <•<  llected  all  the  news  and  every  amusing  story 
she  could  get  hold  of  to  tell  him;  she  was  a.  clever  woman  — 
"capital  company!"—  and  she  devoted  herself  entirely  to  his 
entertainment.  And  then  she  practiced  that  generally  success- 
ful maxim,  "reader  pout  -mieux  santt't"  :"  if  Gerard  gave  any 
•yniptoms  of  the  old  feeling  for  her,  she  would  say,  sorrow- 
fully : 

"  Ah,  those  happy  days  are  over.     You  have  a  wife  now." 

Sometimes  Gerard  would  have  liked  to  reply,  "  Yes,  confound 
it!  what  a  fool  I  was!"  but  he  restrained  the  words,  and  only 
uttered  a  deep  sigh. 

Lady  Mildred  had  for  some  time  past  been  hatching  an- 
other plot  —  one  that  seemed  likely  to  be  successful.  She  did 
not  breathe  one  word  of  it  to  Gerard,  who  might  have  op- 
posed it. 

Between  four  and  five  miles  from  Dallas  Park  there  lived  a 
pretty  widow,  by  name  Mrs.  Warren.  She  was  rich;  she  enter- 
tained well;  she  was  a  wonderful  rider.  She  had,  however,  one 
misfortune.  She  married  the  deceased  Mr.  Warren  twelve 
months  later  than  the  laws  of  society  demand.  Therefore,  al- 
though all  the  men  in  the  county  knew  and  spoke  to  her,  very 
few  of  the  ladies  patronized  her,  and  she  had  to  depend  a  good 
deal  for  society  upon  people  she  picked  up  in  London.  The  un- 
married men  in  the  neighborhood  dined  with  her,  and  were  ex- 
tremely civil  to  her.  Ravenhold,  as  a  bachelor,  had  been  a  fre- 
quent ,\uest  at  her  house,  and  had  made  love  to  her  in  that  little 
way  of  his. 

When  he  brought  Lady  Ravenhold  home,  Mrs.  Warren  had 
ventured  to  call  at  Dallas  Park,  but  only  received  cards  in  return 
at  the  end  of  three  weeks. 

This  was  entirely  Gerard's  doing.  Vanessa,  who  was  kind- 
hearted,  did  not  like  to  snub  any  one,  but  her  husband  said  with 
decision  that  Mrs.  Warren  was  not  a  person  for  iier  to  know.  Mrs. 
Warren,  of  course,  thought  it  was  her  ladyship's  pride,  and  took 
great  pleasure  in  sneering  at  her  and  calling  her  the  wine  mer- 
chant's ex-widow. 

Lady  Mildred,  happening  to  meet  Mrs.  Warren  at  luncheon 
one  day  in  rather  a  fast  house,  and  knowing  that  she  lived  near 
the  Ravenholds,  made  a  point  of  being  extremely  civil  to  her, 
greatly  to  Mrs.  Warren's  delight.  In  October  Lady  Mildred 
again  met  her  at  the  shop  of  those  celebrated  linen-drapers,  the 
rendezvous  for  friends  and  acquaintances.  She  stopped,  entered 
into  friendly  conversation,  and  invited  Mrs.  Warren  to  dine  and 
44  do  a  play"  with  her.  Mrs.  Warren  was  enchanted.  She  pre- 
sumed to  hint  in  the  evening,  knowing  that  Lady  Mildred  was  a 
first-rate  rider,  how  flattered  she  would  be  if  her  ladyship  would 
come  down  to  her  for  a  few  days'  hunting,  and  Lady  Mildred, 
perfectly  conscious  of  the  license  that  the  fact  of  her  b^ing  a 
duke's  daughter  gave  her  to  do  everything,  nearly  everything. 
that  she  chose,  accepted  frankly.  There  were  other  houses  in 
the  county  where  she  might  have  stayed,  but  none  where  she 
could  do  "exactly  as  she  wished  —  none"  where  she  would  hara 


r~HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVSU  215 

boenmt  liberty  to  see  Gerard  when  she  pleased  and  how  she 
pleased.  Mrs.  Warren,  she  knew,  would  connive  with  the  great- 
est delight  at  her  flirtation,  and  she  had  conjectured,  from  the 
way  in  which  that  lady  had  spoken  of  Vanessa,  that  she  would 
be  only  too  delighted  to  mortify  and  annoy  her. 

So  Lady  Mildred  sent  down  her  horses,  and  the  first  that 
Ravenhold  knew  of  her  being  in  the  county  was  when  he  be- 
held her  arrive  at  the  meet,  perfectly  mounted  and  equipped,  by 
the  side  of  Mrs.  Warren.  He  did  not  at  first  know  whether  to 
be  most  pleased  or  most  shocked;  but,  after  a  few  minutes,  he 
became  aware  that  the  former  sensation  predominated. 

"  My  dear  child!"  he  whispered,  "  what  in  Heaven's  name  has 
made  you  take  up  with  Mrs.  Warren  ?" 

She  looked  him  full  in  the  face,  and  answered,  in  a  very  low 
voice: 

"  What  in  the  wide  world  would  I  not  do  to  be  near  you!" 

Then  she  dropped  her  eyes  and  turned  to  speak  to  another 
man. 

Gerard's  heart  thrilled.  He  never  left  her  all  that  day.  By 
Jove!  how  she  rode!  with  what  pluck,  yet  with  what  judgment! 
She  was  the  admiration  of  every  man  in  the  field,  and  received 
the  most  flattering  attentions,  although  it  was  known  that  she 
was  the  guest  of  Mrs.  Warren.  Even  that  lady  came  in  for 
much  more  courteous  treatment  in  consequence,  and  was  radi- 
ant with  joy. 

Lady  Mildred,  though  she  had  ostensibly  come  for  a  few  days, 
remained,  as  she  intended,  for  several  weeks — no  fear  of  her 
outstaying  her  welcome  with  Mrs.  Warren.  That  lady  played 
into  her  hands  with  the  most  perfect  comprehension  of  her  part 
— the  house  was  free  to  Lord  Ravenhold,  and  when  he  came  he 
was  certain  of  finding  himself  tete-a-tete  with  Lady  Mildred.. 

It  was  astonishing  at  this  time  how  often  Gerard  was  belated 
out  hunting,  and  how,  on  non-hunting  days,  visits  to  distant 
farms  occupied  great  portions  of  his  time.  Once  he  went  up  to 
London  for  the  night,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  got  no  further 
than  five  miles  from  his  own  home,  although  his  servant  drove 
him  to  and  from  the  station. 

.  At  this  time,  no  suspicion  of  Lady  Mildred's  presence  in  the 
neighborhood  crossed  Vanessa's  brain.  She  was,  indeed,  hap- 
pier than  usual,  for  Gerard  was  exceedingly  kind  and  affection- 
ate when  with  her,  which,  however,  was  not  so  oft««  as  she 
could  have  desired. 

There  was  some  talk  in  the  county  on  the  subject.  The  women 
fcaid'  Ladv  Mildred  came  after  Ravenhold—  the  men  were  of 
opinion  that  she  stayed  on  because  the  hunting  was  so  exception- 
ally good.  Men  who  are  sportsmen  are  not  generally  given  to 
scandal  or  gossip— they  did  not  therefore  tell  tales  at  home  about 
Ravenhold  an.d  Lady  Mildred  being  inseparable  in  the  hunting- 
field,  and  there  was  only  one  other  woman  who  hunted,  and  she, 
being  more  like  a  man  than  a  woman,  did  not  bother  her  head 
with  other  people's  concerns,  and  cared  for  nothing  except  to  be 
•well  to  the  front.  Still  the  women  talked  among  themselves, 
although  they  were  unanimous  in  declaring  that  it  would  b«verj 


216  1    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

q| 

wrong  to  give  Lady  Ravenhold,  poor  dear!  any  hint  as  to  what 
was  going  on.  Of  course  they  thought  she  knew  that  Lady 
Mildred  was  in  the  county. 

Ravenhold  was  aware  that  he  was  living  on  the  brink  of  a 
volcano;  but  somehow  the  excitement  was  not  altogether  un- 
pleasant to  him — anything  was  better  than  stagnation.  He  was 
puzzled  about  his  own  feelings  toward  Lady  Mildred.  He  had 
heard  and  believed  that  once  a  man  has  got  over  a  passion  for  a 
woman  it  never  returns.  And  yet  he  was  afraid,  ashamed  to 
own  to  himself,  what  a  hold  she  had  upon  him — he  could  not 
bear  a  day  to  pass  without  seeing  her. 

When  she  talked  of  leaving,  he  implored  her  to  stay — he  even 
went  so  far  as  to  beg  Mrs.  Warren  to  join  her  entreaties  to  his. 
Which  that  lady  did  in  such  an  earnest  and  heartfelt  manner 
that  Lady  Mildred  found  it  impossible  to  refuse.  One  day  she 
had  a  fall  out  hunting.  It  was  not  serious,  but  it  so  terrified 
and  agitated  Ravenhold  that  two  other  men  who  came  to  her 
assistance  made  remarks  very  freely  to  each  other  as  they  rode 
away.  Her  ladyship  did  not  hunt  for  some  days  afterward,  and 
then  Gerard  alway?  went  home  after  the  first  kill — not  home,  at 
least,  but  to  Mrs.  Warren's  house,  where  he  sat  for  hours  beside 
Lady  Mildred,  who  was  laid  on  the  sofa  appareled  in  the  rich 
colors  that  so  well  became  her  dark  eyes  and  hair.  Often,  often 
as  he  went  home,  remorse  pricked  him — he  felt  as  if  he  were  un- 
der the  influence  of  some  devilish  fascination,  and  yet  he  could 
not  tear  himself  away  from  it. 

A  few  days  after  Lady  Mildred's  fall,  a  neighbor  of  Lady  Ra- 
venhold's  came  to  call  on  her.  She  was-a  lady  not  distinguished 
for  tact. 

"  I  hear  that  was  rather  a  nasty  fall  Lady  Mildred  had,"  she 
remarked  in  the  course  of  conversation. 

"  Lady  Mildred!"  repeated  Vanessa,  turning  deathly  white. 

Her  visitor  felt  exceedingly  confused. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  is  at  all  serious,"  she  hastened  to  say,  ap- 
pearing not  to  notice  the  change  in  Lady  Ravenhold.  Vanessa 
made  an  immense  effort  over  herself. 

"  You  mean  Lady  Mildred  Belair,"  she  remarked,  quietly. 
"  Where  is  she  staying  ?" 

"  With  Mrs.  Warren,  So  odd  of  her.  Of  course,  no  one  calls 
on  her  there.  How  can  they  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Vanessa.  "  And  she  has  been  there  some  time," 
speaking  as  though  she  were  already  aware  of  the  fact. 

"About  five  weeks,  I  suppose,"  replied  the  visitor,  taken  off 
her  guard. 

When  she  was  alone  again,  Tanessa  sat  for  a  long  time  per- 
fectly still.  She  knew  that  she  must  be  calm;  she  dared  not 
agitate  herself. 

"  It  is  all  over,  all  over!"  she  kept  murmuring,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Oh,  my  God!  what'have  I  done  to  deserve  this?1' 

How  should  she  meet  Gerard  ?  She  knew  she  could  not  speak 
to  him  on  the  subject  without  violent  emotion,  and  she  knew 
that  she  could  not  meet  him  and  keep  silence.  Then  she  rememr 


i    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED,  217 

bered  that  Hermione  was  in  London,  and  dispatched  a  telegram 
begging  her  in  urgent  terms  to  come  at  once. 

Then  she  went  to  her  own  room  and  wrote  a  few  lines  to  her 
Lusband,  bidding  him  not  to  attempt  to  see  her  until  she  sent 
for  him.  "  I  have  telegraphed  to  Hermione  to  come  at  once," 
she  concluded. 

As  he  read  the  note,  Ravenhold's  face  blanched:  he  went  and 
leaned  against  the  chimney-piece.  The  thunderbolt  had  fallen. 
What  a  cursed  fool  he  had  been  to  press  Milly  to  stay!  He 
might  have  known  this  would  happen.  Should  he  send  o-ff  a 
line  at  once  imploring  her  to  leave  the  county  ?  But  it  was  fifty 
to  one  if  she  would  go,  however  much  he  might  entreat  her — 
she  hated  his  wife  so  desperately;  she  was  capable  of  doing  any- 
thing to  spite  her. 

Presently  he  rang  the  bell,  and  inquired  if  any  one  had  calted 
that  afternoon.  When  he  heard  the  name  of  the  visitor,  he  was 
tolerably  certain  how  the  catastrophe  had  come  about.  Next 
morning  he  did  not  go  hunting,  but  dawdled  about  the  stables 
and  grounds,  without  making  any  attempt  to  see  Vanessa.  At 
first  he  thought  of  going  to  the  station  to  meet  his  sister,  but 
why  betray  himself  until  he  knew  how  far  he  was  inculpated  ? 
how  much  was  discovered  ? 

At  one  o'clock  Hermione  arrived,  and  went  at  once  to  Vanessa's 
room.  And  then  poor  Vanessa,  unable  to  restrain  herself 
longer,  cried  her  heart  out  on  the  breast  of  that  sympathizing 
little  lady,  who  as  yet  was  ignorant  of  what  calamity  had  be- 
fallen. 

When,  between  sobs  and  tears,  Vanessa  told  her  story,  arid  de- 
clared that,  whatever  the  consequences,  she  would  leave  home, 
and  never  see  Gerard  more  unless  he  swore  not  so  much  as  to 
set  eyes  on  that  wicked  wretch  again,  Hermione,  though  she 
tried  to  make  the  best  of  the  matter  to  her  sister-in-law,  felt  all 
her  bosom  swell  with  fury,  and  determined  that  these  criminals 
should  be  duly  punished. 

And  forthwith,  going  out  from  Vanessa  like  a  lamb,  she  en- 
tered her  brother's  room  like  a  lion.  For  even  a  very  small 
woman,  when  she  is  inspired  by  righteous  wrath,  can  be  exceed- 
ingly terrible,  particularly  when  her  adversary  is  handicapped 
by  a  guilty  conscience. 

Ravenhold,  though  passionate,  like  herself,  hung  his  head,  and 
had  nothing  to  say.  What  was  the  use  of  lying  to  Hermione, 
whom  it  was  impossible  to  hoodwink  or  deceive,  on  this  subject 
at  all  events?  His  only  defense  was  that  he  did  not  know  Lady 
Mildred  was  coming  into  the  county  until  he  saw  her  there, 
and  that  he  had'not  mentioned  her  presence  to  Vanessa  for  fear 
of  agitating  her. 

"Ah!"  cries  Hermione.  with  bitter  scorn,  being  inspired  by  a 
sort  of  clairvoyance  in  her  wrath,  ''it  did  not  strike  you  that 
people  would  talk  when  you  never  left  Mildred's  side;  it  did  not 
strike  you  that,  when  you  were  constantly  away,  and  always 
came  home  late,  that  Vanessa  would  suspect  nothing.  If  she 
dies,  which  is  quite  possible,  you  two  are  her  murderers,  and, 
though  you  are  my  brother,  I  will  denounce  you,  you  and  her, 


218  *    3AVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED 

to  the  whole  world.  Are  you  human?  have  you  one  spark  of. 
manly  feeling?  I  am  ashamed  of  you.  I  blush  tor  vou.  God 
forgive  me!  at  this  moment  I  think  /  hate  you!" 

Hermione  delivers  every  sentence  with  telling  force.  She  is 
wrought  up  to  the  highest  pitch. 

"And  now,"  she  continues,  "you  will  swear  on  the  Bible 
never  to  see  this  wretched  woman  again  or  I  will  carry  Vanessa 
off  with  me  to-day,  no  matter  what  the  consequences  may  be, 
and  you  shall  not  see  her  again,  if  I  can  help  it.  My  doors,  I 
swear,  shall  be  shut  to  you." 

So  Ravenhold,  there  being  no  other  course  open  to  him,  swears 
on  the  Bible  as  he  is  commanded. 

Hermione  charges  herself  with  getting  rid  of  Lady  Mildred. 
She  pays  her  ladyship  a  visit  that  very  afternoon.  The  inter- 
view takes  place  a  huis  clos.  Suffice  it  to  say  that,  oij  the  follow- 
ing day,  Lady  Mildred,  to  Mrs.  Warren's  infinite  chagrin,  departs 
for  London. 

Not  a  word  passed  between  Lord  and  Lady  Ravenhold  upon  the 
subject  of  Lady  Mildred.  He,  with  his  sense  of  guilt,  scarcely- 
dared  approach  her,  and  she  held  herself  aloof  from  him.  An  un- 
utterable sense  of  melancholy  stole  over  her  from  which  nothing 
could  rouse  her — not  all  Hermione's  efforts,  nor  Susan's,  whom 
Mrs.  Fane  had  sent  for.  She  was  looking  death  in  the  face ;  she 
was  certain  that  she  would  die,  and  she  was  trying  hard  to  say 
that  it  was  better  so.  How  happy  she  had  been !  More  happy 
than  any  woman  had  been  before  her,  or  would  be  after  her. 
She  had  thought  of,  valued  nothing  but  Gerard,  and  God  was 
punishing  her  for  forgetting  Him.  The  Creator  would  not  toler- 
ate the  creature  being  worshiped  before  Him. 

There  was  no  resentment  in  her  heart  against  him  now;  if  only 
for  the  time  that  remained  to  her  she  could  lay  her  head  on  his 
breast  and  hold  his  hand  and  feel  once  more  that  they  were  all 
in  all  to  each  other,  that  no  alien  form  stood  between  her  and 
her  love,  she  could,  she  thought,  die  in  peace. 

As  for  Gerard,  he  was  terribly  bored  and  dull ;  he  felt  utterly 
wretched;  in  his  own  eyes  he  was  the  martyr  and  victim.  The 
very  fact  of  his  being  unable  to  meet  Lady  Mildred  increased  his 
passion  for  her  tenfold.  There  were  days  when  he  was  almost 
tempted  to  brave  all  consequences,  and  to  rush  up  to  town  to  see 
her.  He  wrote  to  her  every  day  of  his  life,  and  posted  the  letters 
with  his  own  hands,  and  she  directed  her  answers  to  a  post-office 
four  miles  distant,  and  he  fetched  them  thence  himself.  On 
those  days  when  there  was  no  letter  from  her  he  rode  home 
moody,  miserable,  unbearably  disappointed. 

It  was  Christmas-day.  A  gloomy,  wretched,  miserable  day 
indeed. 

Gerard  did  not  make  the  faintest  -attempt  to  conceal  his  gloom 
—he  went  about  looking  the  picture  of  misery;  only  to  see  his 
face  was  enough  to  inspire  one  with  the  deepest  melancholy. 
Finally  he  went  to  his  room,  and  locked  himself  in  to  write  to 
Lar*y  Mildred.  He  was  not  particularly  fond  of  letter-writing, 
ktt*  to-  lay  it  pave  him  the  greatest  comfort  to  pour  out  hU  woe 


I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED.  219 

and  his  wretchedness  to  some  one  who  he  knew  would  sympa- 
thize with  him*  Even  as  he  wrote  the  first  words,  "My  own 
darling,"  his  spirits  revived.  It  was  true  she  was  not  his  own, 
but  that  did  not  take  away  from  the  pleasure  of  addressing  her 
as  though  she  were. 

"How  you  would  pity  me  if  you  could  see  me !  I  wonder  what 
you  are  doing?  Christmas-day  is  always  detestable,  but  this  is 
the  most  awful  one  I  ever  remember.  It  is  three  o'clock,  and 
it  seems  as  though  it  ought  to  be  midnight.  For  company  I  have 
two  gloomy,  reproachful-looking  women — I  am  made  to  feel  like 
a  whipped  hound ;  every  servant  in  the  place  knows  that  I  am  in 
disgrace.  I  would  give  anything  I  possess — I  would  give  a  year 
of  my  life  to  be  with  you  for  one  hour  now.  However,  thank 
God!  this  state  of  things  cannot  go  on  much  longer,  and  when  it 
is  over,  and  there  is  no  more  chance  of  my  being  catted  a  mur- 
derer, as  I  have  been  already  by  my  sister,  I  shall  throw  off  this 
yoke  and  do  just  what  I  please.  Nothing  then  shall  hinder  me 
from  seeing  you  as  often  as  I  please — and  as  you  please.  What  a 
fool  I  have  beenj  Oh,  my  love,  if  ever  I  have  done  wrong  to 
you,  pity  me  now,  for  you  are  indeed  revenged.  When,  when 
shall. I  see  you  again?  Your  own 

"GERARD. 

"I  am  going  out  into  the  hurricane  to  post  this.  I  would  walk 
all  the  way  to  London  to  see  you." 

Having  thus  solaced  his  feelings,  Lord  Ravenhold  starts  for 
his  walk.  When  he  returns,  it  is  quite,  quite  dark — he  changes 
his  clothes  and  goes  into  his  wife's  boudoir.  She  is  lying  there 
without  a  light,  and  alone.  Hermione  has  a  headache,  and  has 
betaken  herself  to  her  room. 

"Come  here,  darling,"  says  Vanessa,  as  Ravenhold  enters,  and 
in  her  tone  there  is  all  the  love  and  tenderness  of  old  days.  It 
smites  Gerard  with  a  vague  remorse.  He  goes  and  sits  beside 
her,  and  she  lays  her  head  on  his  breast  and  puts  her  hand  in 
his.  She  has  so  much — oh,  so  much  to  say  to  him,  and  yet  she 
fears  to  begin. 

She  wants  to  say  to  him  that  she  will  not  be  here  long  now— 
she  would  fain  tell  him  how  happy  he  has  made  her,  and  that 
he  must  not  reproach  himself  when  she  is  gone;  with  her  head 
on  his  breast,  she  longs  to  whisper  that,  if  she  has  aught  to  for- 
give, she  forgives  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart.  And  she  would 
entreat  him,  if  her  child  should  live,  to  talk  sometimes  to  it  of 
its  dead  mother,  and  she  has  injunctions  to  give  him  about  the 
last  resting-place  of  her  poor  body,  which  once  he  loved  so 
fondly. 

But  at  the  very  first  words  she  breaks  down.  With  his  arms 
round  her,  with  her  head  pillowed  on  his  breast,  with  all  her 
idolatrous  love  of  him  surging  up  in  her  heart,  the  thought  of 
leaving  him  is  too  bitter.  She  has  but  uttered  the  words,  "Oh, 
my  love,  I  shall  not  be  with  you  long,"  when  she  stops  sharply, 
and  falls  to  bitterest  weeping.  He  soothes  and  kuthes  her  like 


220  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

a  child — he  reassures  her  tenderly.  But  her  words  do  not  alarm 
him— he  does  not  put  any  faith  in  them — it  is  natural,  he  sup- 
poses, that  she  should  think  and  talk  like  this. 

It  is  a  long  time  before  Vanessa  can  speak  again.  At  last  she 
conquers  her  agitation  enough  to  say : 

"Some  day — some  day  you  will  know  how  I  loved  you,"  and 
then  her  sobs  choke  her,  and  she  cannot  speak  one  other  word. 

It  is  on  the  third  day  following:  Vanessa  and  Hermione  are 
sitting  together  after  luncheon.  Vanessa  has  seemed  brighter, 
mure  cheerful  since  her  reconciliation  with  Gerard.  A  servant 
enters  with  the  letters  which  have  arrived  by  the  second  post. 
There  are  four  for  Lady  Ravenhold.  One  is  from  /  Edith,  and 
she  opens  this  first  and  reads  the  contents  eagerly.  It  is  a  long 
letter,  and  contains  a  great  deal  of  family  news.  She  has  been 
staying  with  Mab,  who  is  as  happy  as  ever,  though  not  quite  so 
prim  and  censorious  about  other  wives  as  in  the  first  days  of  her 
marriage.  Her  grandfather  is  more  unbearable  than  ever.  Then 
she  proceeds : 

"Would  you,  my  darling  Nessa.  be  very,  very  much  surprised 
to  hear,  after  all  I  have  said  against  men  and  marriage,  that  1 
am  at  last  going  to  break  my  vow  of  eternal  spinsterhood.  I  am 
not  in  love!  I  don't  think  any  woman. can  love  twice  as  I  loved; 
but  one  can  respect,  admire,  look  up  to,  and  be  happy  in  a  man's 
society  without  feeling  the  rapture  and  torment  of  love — love  ^as 
you  and  I  understand  it.  It  is  of  no  use  my  asking  you  to  guess 
the  name  of  my  future  husband.  I  had  never  met  him  when  I 
saw  you  last.  It  is  Lord  B ." 

Vanessa  utters  a  little  cry  of  delight,  and  Hermione  looks  up. 
Vanessa  tells  her  the  news  rapturously. 

"Upon  my  word,"  says  Mrs.  Fane,  "she  is  a  fortunate  young 
woman.  He  is  quite  charming,  and  immensely  rich.  True,  he 
is  a  widower,  but  both  his  children  are  girls." 

"I  am  pleased.  I  am  delighted,"  exclaimed  Vanessa.  "Dear, 
d?rling  Edie !  If  ever  any  one  deserves  to  be  happy  it  is  she !" 

\Vhen  Lady  Ravenhold  has  read  the  letter  three  times  through, 
she  opens  the  others.  The  third  is  rather  bulky — it  contains  two 
inclosures — oat  is  a  letter  in  her  husband's  hand,  written  on  the 
thick  paper  he  always  uses;  the  other  is  a  common  sheet,  on 
which  these  words  are  written : ' 

"Mv  LADY, — I  send  you  this  letter  which  her  ladyship  dropped 
by  accident,  thinking  ~it  only  right  that  your  ladyship  should 
know  of  her  goings  on  with  Lord  Ravenhold." 

Vanessa  sits  for  a  moment  perfectly  still.  It  flashes  across  her 
mind  that  she  ought  not  to  read  Gerard's  letter — she  is  half 
minded  to  throw  it  over  to  Hermione.  Unfortunately,  Mrs. 
Fane  rises  at  this  very  instant,  saying  she  must  answer  one  of 
her  letters  without  delay. 

Then  Vanessa  reads.  It  is  the  letter  which  Gerard  wrote  to 
Lady  Mildred  on  Christmas-day. 


/   HAVE   LIVED    AND    LOVED.  221 

Some  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  as  Hermione  is  sitting  writing 
at  her  table,  the  door  is  dashed  open,  and  Lady  Ravenhold's 
maid  rushes  in  with  a  white,  terrified  face. 

"Oh,  ma'am,  pli(ase  come  at  once !  I'm  afraid  her  ladyship 
is  dying."  In  three  seconds  Hermione  is  by  Vanessa's  side. 
Susan  comes  running  at  the  same  moment. 

"The  fastest  horse  in  the  stables,  in  his  lordship's  buggy,  to 
go  for  Mr.  Wilson !"  cries  Hermione.  Next  she  writes  a  telegram 
for  a  celebrated  London  physician,  and  then,  in  an  agony  of 
alarm,  she  returns  to  Vanessa.  She  sees  the  letters  lying  about, 
and  by  instinct  picks  them  up  and  puts  them  in  her  pocket.  As 
she  does  so,  she  catches  sight  of  her  brother's  handwriting  on 
one.  "Your  own  Gerard"  is  lying  uppermost. 

"He  has  killed  her!"  she  says  to  herself  over  and  over  again 
between  her  teeth.  And  when  he  comes  rushing  to  her  half  an 
hour  later  with  a  white  scared  face,  she  cries,  thrusting  his  letter 
into  his  hands : 

"Do  you  wapt  to  know  what  has  happened?  That  will  tell 
you !  I  hope  you  are  happy  now !" 

"Oh,  my  God !"  he  cries.  And  then  he  stands  speechless, 
livid,  looking  so  like  death  itself  that  Hermione  relents  for  a 
moment  from  her  rancor  and  utters  no  further  reproach. 

When  Gerard  recovers  himself,  he  is  like  a  madman.  He 
wants  to  telegraph  for  half  the  physicians  in  London — he  goes 
on  his  knees  to  the  country  doctor  imploring  him  to  save  his 
darling  wife. 

Vanessa  remained  insensible — convulsion  followed  convulsion. 
In  the  terrible  anxiety  about  the  mother,  no  one  recked  anything 
of  the  dead  heir. 

Ravenhold,  when  he  was  not  hanging  over  his  wife's  insensible 
form,  sat  in  his  own  room,  his  chest  well-nigh  rent  with  the 
groans  and  tearless  sobs  that  are  so  terrible  to  hear  from  a 
strong  man.  He  would  cut  off  his  right  hand  to  save  her  now ; 
he  would  give — not  one— but  ten  years  of  his  life  for  hers. 

But  she  was  not  to  live;  they  broke  it  to  him  as  tenderly  as 
possible,  but  the  fiat  had  gone  forth — she  was  dying.  He  fell 
on  his  knees  and  besought  God  to  let  her  know  him  once  more, 
speak  to  him  once  more;  he  would  have  bribed  his  Creator  with 
the  promise  of  giving  up  everything  he  valued  in  the  world  to 
let  him  hear  from  his  wife's  lips  that  she  forgave  him. 

But  she  died  and  made  no  sign,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  mur- 
dered her.  In  his  agony  he  could  have  proclaimed  his  guilt 
aloud ;  he  longed  to  expiate  if  possible  some  part  of  his  sin  by 
confessing  it;  by  calling  down  on  his  head  the  scorn  and  hatred 
of  men.  Hermione,  seeing  his  state  and  hearing  the  wildness 
of  his  words,  persuaded  the  doctor  to  give  him  a  powerful 
sedative. 

He  slept  long  and  heavily.  It  was  nearly  midday  on  the  mor- 
row when  he  woke.  He  would  not  touch  food,  but  went  straight 
to  her  room.  It  was  darkened.  Susan  sat  there  watching  her 
dead  darling;  the  tears  coursing  down  her  cheeks,  her  lips  mov- 
ing in  orayer. 


222  I    HAVE    LIVED    AND    LOVED. 

Not  that  her  young  lady  needed  prayers — she  was  one  of  God's 
angels  now. 

When  Ravenhold  entered,  she  rose  softly,  and  went  out,  having 
unclosed  the  shutter  a  little  way.  She  knew  nothing  of  the 
truth,  and  felt  only  the  deepest  pity  for  the  poor,  broken-hearted 
young  husband. 

Gerard  went  and  stood  beside  his  dead  wife.  He  gazed  at  her, 
his  breast  heaving  with  great  sighs.  She  was  more  beautiful  in 
death  even  than  in  life.  Oh,  God!  and  he  could  neglect  and  be 
indifferent  to  such  an  angel !  She  was  like  purest  marble.  Ker 
hair  was  laid  by  loving  hands  all  its  full  length  beside  her;  on 
one  arm  he  saw  her  little  dead  child  lying;  round  her  head  was 
an  aureole  of  white  flowers.;  blossoms  like  the  driven  snow  lay 
upon  her  breast. 

He  turned  away  and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands — the  sight  was 
more  than  he  could  bear.  It  was  he  who  with  mad,  sacrilegious 
hands  had  plucked  awaj  his  happiness — it  was  he  who  had  killed 
the  fairest  and  most  losing  wife  God  ever  gave  to  mortal  man. 

In  the  deep  waters  of  agony  that  flooded  his  soul  he  cried  out 
that  his  punishment  was  greater  than  he  could  bear. 

Hermione  came  to  seek  him :  her  anger  had  died  out;  noth- 
ing but  pity  for  him  remained.'  Ah !  who  could  feel  wrath  in 
presence  of  that  lovely,-  piteous  sight — the  fair  dead  mother,  the 
little  dead  child? 

''Gerard !"  she  murmured,  softly  and  kindly — "my  poor  boy ! 
come  away  now." 

But  he  waved  her  off.  Then  she  went  away  again  with  falter- 
ing steps  and  streaming  eyes.  Of  a  truth  he  was  punished;  his 
sin  had  found  him  out ! 


[THE  END.] 


I  UH 


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